


For the Record

by manic_intent



Series: Code of Ethics [2]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because life gets complicated when your grudge match kills a few thousand humans, Inspired by trailers, M/M, Misunderstandings, NOTE: THIS FIC WILL BE MOSTLY T-RATED, No Spoilers, Not quite healthy relationships, Some moralising, Sort of dark...?, Speculative fiction, That precanon story speculating about the events in BvS, however will not follow trailers completely, manipulative Bruce, naive Clark, post Man of Steel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-23 17:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6124567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ground Zero in Metropolis, Bruce read a lot of science fiction. He’d never particularly bothered with the genre before: even after retiring as the Batman, it wasn’t as though Bruce had very many hours in the day to devote to stories about imaginary alien civilisations and spaceship battles and evil robots. Life was strange enough, or so he had thought. Then life <i>itself</i> had turned into science fiction, and standing outside the blast zone, comforting a child, Bruce had felt <i>small</i> for the second time in his lifetime, small and powerless and utterly helpless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t originally want to write a pre-film imagining of Batman vs Superman since I don’t feel like writing in Lex Luthor, don’t like doing research and I'm usually wary of old fandoms with a lot of canon history.
> 
> Besides... Wonder Woman. In a film where they’ve redesigned Batman and Superman, why is she still pantsless and wearing boob armour? Also, I don’t actually see at this point any sort of happy ending for Superbat in a situation where Superman _has_ , if inadvertently, contributed to mass murder. I’m not really a fan personally of superhero comics in general either… I tend to prefer stuff under the Vertigo imprint etc.
> 
> But then I seem to have fallen into some sort of trashy Superbat hell, so. This fic is pretty much about a middle-aged, retired Batman’s idea of a Superman containment strategy. Enjoy? 
> 
> **EDIT** : To make it very clear, this is an AU. I think I will write Wonder Woman into the story after all, but she will, for example, not be wearing pin up girl armour, and things like that. There are also some details in the trailers that will not appear or will be different (i.e. I'm still undecided about writing in Lex Luthor, or the strange Thing-like monster etc). If you don't like AUs, I'm sorry if you've already started to read this, I forgot to tag it before XD;;;;;. Best of luck!

I.

After Ground Zero in Metropolis, Bruce read a lot of science fiction. He’d never particularly bothered with the genre before: even after retiring as the Batman, it wasn’t as though Bruce had very many hours in the day to devote to stories about imaginary alien civilisations and spaceship battles and evil robots. Life was strange enough, or so he had thought. Then life _itself_ had turned into science fiction, and standing outside the blast zone, comforting a child, Bruce had felt _small_ for the second time in his lifetime, small and powerless and utterly helpless. The first time, he had just lost his parents, people he had depended on. The second time, he lost a thousand people who had depended on _him_.

Science fiction had helped. Humanity had long attempted to imagine the future, and the ways some future version of human civilisation would deal with First Contact situations. Most of the stories Bruce read were either irrelevant or even farcical. Some lessons, however, had stuck. 

At the very beginning, when Bruce had waded, armed with Wayne Enterprises’ CEO, CFO and the legal team, through the sea of payouts to be made to the families of the dead, he had imagined putting on the cowl again. Finding some sort of way to go toe to toe with Superman. Bringing him down, the way he had brought down Bane, the Joker, the Black Hand and everyone in between. But what would it have achieved? One of the lawyers had jokingly said something about an Act of God defense, and Bruce had savagely fired him on the spot. Wayne Enterprises set up an expansive Ground Zero fund, settled a class action lawsuit quibbling over contractual amounts, and Bruce seethed through months of bad press in Gotham. It was the nature of business, his CFO had told him. Bruce had been tempted to fire her too. 

If it wasn’t for Alfred, Bruce probably would’ve. “Coffee, Master Bruce?” 

Bruce looked up from his book. Deciding to struggle through Liu Cixin’s _Death’s End_ in Mandarin had been ill-advised, given how dense the previous two books had felt even in English. He was quickly developing a headache. “Yes, thank you.”

Alfred picked up the cold mug of coffee from the side table, replacing it with a fresh cup, the only sign of his disapproval in the faintly narrowed tilt of his eyes. “Someday I’ll simply microwave this, and see if you even notice, sir.” Alfred frowned down at Bruce through thick-rimmed black spectacles, his gray shirt buttoned up over his throat, complete with black tie and a charcoal wool vest, silver hair combed back impeccably. In some ways, neither of them had changed, even as time marched on about them. Alfred, the caretaker. Bruce, the ward. 

“I appreciate your input, Alfred.” Bruce drawled. 

“If only you did,” Alfred of late never seemed to pass up an opportunity to nag, a most unfortunate habit, in Bruce’s opinion. “If you _did_ listen to me, you would eat three square meals a day _and_ read a book under proper lighting with proper reading glasses like a normal human being. Sir.” 

Bruce meekly slid his Kindle over onto the side table, rubbing his eyes. “I give up. Get that over to whoever we use for translation in Wayne Enterprises. I want an English translation by Friday.” 

“Excellent, sir. May I posit an opinion? Reading something in low lighting as you are now, is very likely _just_ as damaging for your posture and eyesight, regardless of the language.” 

“No you may not posit an opinion,” Bruce shot back, and smirked as Alfred let out a loud sigh and bustled off, cold coffee and Kindle in hand. Rolling creakily to his feet, Bruce rubbed his sore back, scooping up the fresh coffee mug and making his way down to the cave, yawning. He was still fit for his age, but slowing down showed, some days. Bruce still set aside some time per day for the gym, but it wasn’t the rigorous training he was used to when he had still been caught up in delusions of grandeur. A one man stand against crime, indeed. Thank God for mid-life crises. 

With the car and most of his Batman gear stored away on the lower levels, the restored cave was even more austere than it was before. Somewhere in the dark there was the constant high-pitched chittering of the resident colony of bats, but Bruce and the colony were old co-tenants now, and paid each other no attention. The supercomputer woke itself up when Bruce got close, setting his mug of coffee aside and slouching gratefully into the upright seat. 

Once, years ago, the supercomputer would be scanning anything from police radio to CCTV networks to the news, indexing anything that Batman needed to respond to via smart algorithms. Earlier than that, the supercomputer’s predecessor had been Lucius Fox’s brainchild, and using it had caused a rift between Bruce and Lucius that had never really healed, for all that the current computer wasn’t quite the same. Now, however, it monitored a single creature. 

Superman. 

With the world now so interconnected, it was easy for Computer to find Superman. There had been an earthquake in Taiwan, and hundreds of survivors had snapped pictures and videos of Superman with their phones, uploading and tagging them online. CTi News was live on one screen, with a reporter breathlessly describing the quake, while behind her a tiny figure in a brilliant red cape carefully moved entire slabs of concrete and steel aside. According to the reporter, Superman was locating buried people by listening for the heartbeats of survivors. First responders swarmed in brilliant neon yellow vests behind him, waiting nervously as Superman shifted rubble barehanded within minutes that would have taken them days with heavy equipment. 

CNN was quick with the usual tacky headlines. _Human Evolution Reimagined_ , screamed its front page, over a crisp photograph of Superman lifting up a concrete slab while policemen hauled a girl out. Bruce rolled his eyes. Superman might look human, but he sure as hell wasn’t. Sub-articles crowded beneath the headline news. _Wayne Enterprises Takes on Superman / Trump: We Don’t Need F**king Aliens / Can a Nonhuman be an American Citizen?_ Bruce had once been vaguely tempted once to buy CNN out of spite, just to fire everyone (except maybe Anderson Cooper). Thankfully, his CFO had talked him out of it at the time.

One of the screens flickered dark, blinking, displaying a name. Bruce connected with a gesture, and raised his coffee cup in greeting as the black screen cleared to show an impersonal, tan-and-glass hotel room. Tam Fox pursed her lips at him, her curly, tawny hair cut short over her long neck, her steely eyes and disapproving stare for a moment intensely, amusingly familiar, every inch her father’s daughter. Despite the time, she was dressed in a white collared shirt, perfectly put together, though like Bruce, age had started to leave its mark, with silver in her hair and faint lines at the edge of her eyes.

“Bruce,” said the current CEO of Wayne Enterprises, “It’s one a.m. in Gotham.”

“Why did you call, then?”

“Alfred told me to tell you to go to bed.” Tam rolled her eyes. “Really, Bruce. We’re almost the same age. You’re no longer the Batman, remember?” 

“The same age? Ridiculous. You don’t look a day over twenty-one.”

“If that’s what passes as a pickup line in your books nowadays, no wonder you’ve been celibate for a year.”

“Ouch.” Bruce made a mental note to tell Alfred to yet again, please _stop_ oversharing. Even if it was Lucius’ daughter. “Did you really call me just to lecture me? I’ve already had one from Alfred.” 

“Please. Alfred did text me, but London’s not _that_ boring. There’s something else.” Tam leaned forward a fraction, her expression growing grave. “Bradley wants to do some damage control.”

“Who’s that?”

“Grow up, Bruce. I know you’ve never liked your CMOs, but they serve just as important a function in your company as any other. Which you would’ve understood if you hadn’t napped through every single internal brand presentation that you’ve ever bothered to attend.” 

“All right,” Bruce conceded. “What does she want now?” 

“Superman’s getting a lot of good press with the earthquake support,” Tam said briskly. “Bradley wants us to dial down on the Remembrance press. Take some time out to interview the candidates. Wait for the 24 hour press to die down a bit on the Superman coverage. SuperPACs usually stay out of the news anyway. Donate some of the money to a related cause, if we have to.” 

“I want to keep the conversation going in the news.” 

“Yes, that’s what I knew you would say,” Tam exhaled, rubbing a palm over her face. “Bruce. You _know_ this is also personal for me. I lost my little _sister_ when Wayne Tower fell. So for Tiffany’s sake, I’m telling you. Be strategic. I don’t want to fuck this up.”

Bruce carefully set down his cup, swallowing hard. _He_ remembered Tiffany. Like Tam, she had tagged along with Lucius on Family Days at work: he had first met her when she was a tiny little girl in a brilliant green frock. She had insisted on working up through the graduate program, had asked to be transferred to the Metropolis branch, perhaps to get out of her family’s shadow. “Tam…” 

“Trust me on this, all right? We need good press too. And I don’t know about you, but I’m not so far gone that I want to give any money to _Trump_. Curtis agrees, by the way.”

“You’re all ganging up on me. All right, do what you think is necessary.” Bruce decided. Remembrance was only one part of his plan anyway. 

Tam narrowed her eyes. “Well, that was easy. Too easy. What are you up to now? Something happened in Metropolis?” 

“I had a great night,” Bruce said mildly, “With a very promising member of the press-“ 

“Oh _God_ ,” Tam groaned. “Again? By the way, when I said ‘good press’, I don’t mean sordid exposés about the adventures of your dick.”

“I miss your dad,” Bruce observed with mock sadness. “He would never bring something like that up in polite conversation.” 

“Good _night_ , Bruce. Lie low. I’ll be back from this conference in a couple of days.” Tam signed off, and Bruce drank the rest of his cooling coffee, his black mood briefly tempered. No. Tam didn’t need to know about this part of his strategy.

1.0.

“Clark. Hey. Earth to Clark!”

Clark flinched as Lois waved in his line of sight, crushing the pencil he had in his palm into powder. Guiltily, he shoved it into the trash, blinking owlishly under the fake spectacles as Lois leant against the wall of the cubicle, arms folded over the steel rim, frowning.

“Morning, Lois. Something happen?”

“It’s lunchtime, Kent,” Lois said pointedly, a hand brushing through her thick auburn hair. “We were going to take a walk?” 

“Right. Yes. Right.” Clark wiped pencil dust awkwardly off his palms and got to his feet, adjusting his spectacles. He meekly followed Lois out of the Farm, pocketing his phone as he went, a little embarrassed at having been caught spacing out. He had been off-balance since meeting Bruce Wayne, and it was probably starting to show. The lift was packed tight with the usual lunchtime crush, and Clark concentrated on shutting out the noise, turning himself inward. By the time they were out on the ground floor, he was more or less composed again.

“What’s up?” Lois asked, as she led them around the block. They were probably heading to her favourite bagel shop, cutting through a nearby park. As usual, Lois tended to draw admiring glances from passers by, wherever they were, strikingly pretty in a black vest and a wide-collared white blouse, her reporter’s pass flapping from her neck at the end of a lanyard. “You haven’t been yourself for days.”

“Uh, I’ve got that article about the earthquake to finish, and-“

“Is that what’s bothering you?” Lois asked, abruptly sympathetic, lowering her voice. “Look. You got there as fast as you could, remember? The building collapsed, possibly because it didn’t meet their construction standards. It’s all in their local news. You still got out the survivors.”

“It’s not that,” Clark said uneasily. “It’s just. You know. Remembrance.” 

“Oh.” Lois’ expression stiffened. “I thought we’d already talked about this. Clark. You had to take down that terraforming machine. And then you had to take Zod down. Those were choices that were out of your hands. You did what you could, rushing from one area to another. I was there, remember?”

Clark coughed. “Could call you a biased witness,” he teased, though his heart wasn’t really in it.

“Well, if you want to get all _legal_ about it,” Lois said mildly, “You, for some cosmically weird reason, _look_ human even though you’re from another planet. But you’re not human. Nonhumans aren’t technically subject to human laws.” 

“We still shoot animals when they kill people. Even if it was provoked.” 

“You’re not an animal.”

“I’m not human, either, like you’ve said.” Clark said evenly, and Lois shot him a sharp, pointed stare. 

“Yes. That’s my point, Clark. You’re something else altogether. Human laws, our cultures, our customs, they don’t really apply to you. You’re from Krypton. And from what we’ve seen so far of the others, maybe destruction’s something commonplace.” 

Clark shuddered. He didn’t want to consider that. “Shouldn’t laws and customs apply? I was brought up human, by humans. I live like one, I think like anyone else. I work, pay bills, hell, I’ve even _voted_. I guess… I don’t know where I’m going with this,” Clark said finally, uncomfortably. 

“Because you _want_ to be human,” Lois said gently. “And that’s the difference. You try harder than even some _actual_ humans I know.” When Clark said nothing, Lois added, “Look. The election will be over in a year - God, I can’t believe there’s still a year to go - and Remembrance will have blown over by then, all right? The 24-hour news cycle doesn’t have a great attention span. We should know.”

“I don’t think Bruce Wayne would have forgotten about it.”

“Wayne? He’s a playboy, Clark. Always has been. In a year he’d have a score of new girlfriends and a shiny new string of cars and he’ll have forgotten all about it, just you watch.” 

Clark swallowed his retort, uneasy: he very much doubted that Bruce would have ‘forgotten all about it’ in a year. After all, it was clear that Bruce had harboured all that anger and hatred for _years_. Clark had been thoroughly regretting following Bruce back to that apartment. Just one more thing in his life to be utterly ashamed of. “You don’t think that Wayne has a point?” 

“I think that you need to remember that you weren’t being tossed into buildings for the fun of it,” Lois said evenly, “And Zod wanted to kill us all, remember? Maybe he would’ve followed you out to the Gobi Desert, or wherever. Or maybe he wouldn’t, and he’d have stayed to kill everyone. You were fighting to _save_ people. You’re _still_ saving people. Every day.” 

“You’re right,” Clark said uncomfortably, as they rounded the corner to the bagel shop. He tried to smile, but managed only a wan grin that felt fake on his face. Lois patted him on the elbow. 

“So don’t let people get you down. Whenever anyone makes a difference, there’s always going to be haters.” 

“All right.”

“And the government’s right behind you.”

“Until we get President Trump- oof!” Clark pretended to flinch as Lois whacked him on the arm. 

“ _Stop it_. I swear, between you and Steve, you’re going to give me _nightmares_ through the primary season.” 

“We live to please.” 

“But seriously, Clark. Look. If Bruce Wayne really cared that much about human lives, he’d have used that money to find a way to, I don’t know, stop climate change. Or fix the mess in the Middle East. People died at Ground Zero. I know that. I lost people I knew too.” Lois said quietly. “But you know what? That’s nothing on the shit that us humans do to each other _every day_.” 

“… I was thinking about that,” Clark said, subdued now.

Lois blinked, off-balance. “What?” 

“The Middle East. I uh. Went to talk to the President. After you know. That photograph, of the boy who washed up on the beach. When it was everywhere on the news. I wanted to know what I could do.” 

“Clark.” Lois grabbed Clark’s elbow tightly, and looked around. Thankfully, the park was empty: they were late in the lunch hour, and most people were hurrying back to their jobs. “ _Don’t_. How do you think that mess even _started_?”

“He said he’d think about it and he never got back to me so.” Clark hesitated. “Relax, Lois. I thought about it too. I’m not going to enlist or whatever you think.” 

“Okay. Good.” Lois didn’t seem convinced. “If you ever need to talk-“ 

Clark’s phone rang, cutting her off. He palmed it with some relief from his coat, grateful for the interruption. It was a number that he didn’t recognise. “Probably a tip,” he said apologetically. 

“I’ll go wait in the queue.” Lois headed off, and Clark picked up.

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” 

“Clark.” That harsh, acrid humour, instantly familiar. “Got a moment?”

“Mister Wayne?” Clark hissed, looking quickly down the alley, just in time to see Lois pop around the corner, out of sight. 

“Just called to thank you for the nice feature.” 

Clark could feel his ears growing hot. “Uh. Don’t mention it. I just. Thought it would be good for people to know more about why you were doing… why you formed Remembrance. Uhm. How did you get this number?”

“Julia betrayed you immediately after I promised her a New York Times exclusive when Remembrance picks a candidate,” Bruce admitted. God, that voice, with that sly, smug humour. Clark _knew_ he was blushing now, thinking back on the night, on what they had done. Perfect memory had its problems. “I’m going to be in Metropolis tomorrow. Free for dinner?” 

Clark panicked. “I uh. Well I-“

“Great. See you at seven. I’ll text you the location.” Bruce hung up, leaving Clark to stare at his phone’s lock screen, horrified. 

That _wasn’t_ going to end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--  
> Refs: 
> 
> Law and the Multiverse and DC Comics: http://lawandthemultiverse.com/category/superheroes/superman/
> 
> Does Superman have a duty to rescue? http://www.wired.com/underwire/2013/06/man-of-steel-legal-lawyer/ (Ans: No) 
> 
> Can Superman get sued due to what happened at the end of Man of Steel? http://www.wired.com/2015/08/geeks-guide-suing-superman/
> 
> Also this: http://thrillbent.com/blog/man-of-steel-since-you-asked/
> 
> Sadly the real world has no Superman, and Taiwan has a lot of earthquakes. :/ The most recent one is in Tainan. Donations are open here: http://www.bustle.com/articles/140092-here-is-how-you-can-help-the-taiwan-earthquake-victims


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter changes the rating of the fic to M.

II.

Meeting ‘Clark Kent’ at the Ground Zero memorial would probably overplay his hand, tempting as it was to be suitably dramatic. Age and Tam Fox had however quickly pared away Bruce’s love of theatre, and so Bruce settled meeting Clark at a downtown wine bar instead. It was dark, it was hipster enough - for Metropolis - that nobody was going to recognise Bruce in jeans, and, more importantly, it had a view of the blank patch of sky where one of the levelled skyscrapers used to stand.

Clark was five minutes early, and looked flustered as he scanned the dimly lit room and found Bruce already seated in the corner. Just like he had at the gala, Clark wore an ill-fitting suit and shirt, rumpled and ink-stained at the cuffs, buttoned up, cheap tie poorly knotted. He had a messenger bag slung over one shoulder that was frayed and stained, and with those huge owlish glasses and that untidy hair, at a passing glance Clark’s disguise probably _did_ work for the unwashed masses. After all, it wasn’t as though people would usually connect this shy-looking reporter with _Superman_. People as a whole only saw what they wanted to see. 

“Hi,” Clark sounded sheepish as he squeezed onto the stool in the corner table, hunched in on himself to make his shoulders look smaller. “Sorry I’m late?”

“You’re not late,” Bruce smiled, all plastic warmth. “ _I’m_ early.” He tipped his glass of wine in Clark’s direction playfully. “Giving myself a head start.” 

Clark mumbled something and looked down at the menu, tipping up his glasses. It had taken Bruce years to find ‘Clark Kent’. Originally, he’d looked in the wrong direction, having assumed that the US Government had hidden Superman away on some top secret base, a blacksite, perhaps, probably offshore, loosing him on the world only when he had disasters to deal with. The all-American Hero, hah. Cheapest form of foreign aid ever minted, conveniently dressed up in American colours, human-shaped, complete with lily white skin. Given that Clark was a hundred per cent alien, from some galaxy light years away, sometimes Bruce wondered how the hell the universe had managed to come up with this kind of blinding coincidence. The imagination of Mother Nature writ large had been surprisingly inadequate. Clark even had the right number of fingers and eyes.

“What’s good here?” Clark asked, with a shy smile. 

If Clark wasn’t who he was, Bruce would probably have been bored enough by now to mentally tune out of the ‘date’: lately, he’d had little time and patience for the subtleties of flirting. “Everything’s good. And we’re meant to share. Hungry?” 

“Not really, uh, I mean, I’m okay.” Did Superman have to eat? Video evidence indicated that he did eat, or at least engage in lunch rituals-

“How about I order, and you pick out whatever you like,” Bruce offered dryly, and Clark nodded, clearly relieved. He was visibly nervous, and mumbled protests when Bruce ordered wine for him on top of the food. 

“How ah. How was your day?” Clark asked quickly.

“The usual. Too few hours in the day, too much to do.” 

“Julia told me you were a ‘playboy’. Her words, not mine.” 

Bruce smiled, careful not to seem impatient. “It _might_ have taken me four decades to finally grow up. But we all have to do it some time. How was _your_ day?”

Clark managed an embarrassed smile, but actually began to talk about the minutiae of a journalist’s life, in so much detail that Bruce was now convinced that Clark’s ‘cover’ was, possibly, genuine to the point that Superman had started to go native. Clark might have been placed in the Daily Planet, as Bruce’s Pentagon source had divulged, but he _worked_ at the Daily Planet too. That possibly meant that very few people at the Planet knew who Clark really was. Perry White, probably. Perhaps Lois Lane, whose archived pre-Ground Zero scoop about a ‘superman’ had never ended up printed. The Pentagon file had a copy of that too, tacked on top of a thorough background check of Lane, White, the Kent ‘parents’ and others.

Wine arrived, a glass for Clark and a top up for Bruce. Clark held his glass with awkward care, as though afraid that he would shatter it at any moment, and very briefly, Bruce wondered what the hell had possessed him to actually sleep with _Superman_. It was a wonder that he had survived it without injuries and/or terrible allergic reactions. The Plan, when Bruce had first worked it out in his head, hadn’t actually involved sexual relations. He could have gotten what he needed another way.

“This is… pretty good,” Clark took a sip. No swirling the wine, no sniffing the aroma. Clark drank like the farmboy he’d been brought up as, holding the glass wrongly, drinking it wrongly, and he smiled nervously at Bruce as he did it, as though fishing hopefully for approval. Eager to please. 

_This_ was the core of Bruce’s problem, after all. The Plan had started to work _too_ well, in a way. And Bruce could never resist pushing his own boundaries. “I enjoy quality,” Bruce drawled, and looked Clark up and down, smirking as Clark blushed visibly even in the dim light from the street. “Go on, make it worth your time. I don’t mind.” 

“I don’t…” Clark trailed off with a gusty sigh. “I’m not here to look for another feature.” 

Bruce held up a finger, and took a sip of his own glass as he did so. “Don’t worry about it, Kent. Everyone uses everyone. It’s not personal and I’m not going to feel hurt. I just prefer to get business over and done with first.”

Clark stared at Bruce unhappily. “Is it always… is that what you think I’m here for? _I_ came here because I thought we were going to have dinner, not, not-“

“We _are_ having dinner,” Bruce pointed out mildly. “Or we will be.” 

“Well,” Clark retorted, “I’m off the clock.” He took a gulp of his wine, throat working - anger, perhaps? No. Frustration. The wineglass rattled when Clark set it back on the table. 

“All right,” Bruce said carefully. “I apologise. Clearly, I’m _very_ out of practice.” 

Clark didn’t look mollified. “Really? You’re one of the most famous people on the _planet_.” 

“That’s part of the problem. The higher you climb in the world,” Bruce said softly, studying Clark’s expression keenly as he did so, “The fewer people you can trust. But I don’t expect you to understand that.”

Clark opened his mouth, then he closed it quickly and tried to cover by taking a drink, averting his eyes. Glass empty, Bruce waved the sommelier over for a top up, and Clark didn’t object. Maybe his alien biology didn’t let him get tipsy. “Sounds like a lonely life,” Clark ventured instead, subdued. 

“Only if you let it.” Bruce rubbed the toe of his shoe up against the back of Clark’s calf, and smiled as Clark flushed and mumbled something but didn’t pull away. 

Dinner was excellent, and later, in Bruce’s Metropolis penthouse, he sucked Clark off against the corkscrew stairs to the mezzanine floor, lips stretched over a condom, his groans greedy and choked down over the flesh stretching his jaw. This was patently insane, and as he sucked, Clark trembling to stay still under Bruce’s palms, Bruce was hyperaware of how easily Clark could kill him like this, just with a twitch of his fingers, crush his skull, snap his neck. Clark’s hands were balled tight, one pressed into his mouth in an token attempt to stifle his whimpers. Clark’s skin was flushed, but he wasn’t sweating, and the indentations that Bruce’s nails pressed into Clark’s hips left no marks whatsoever, an impossibility of nature. _Superhuman_. Bruce was so hard that it hurt. 

“Up here, get up here, _please_ ,” Clark panted, tugging lightly at Bruce’s shoulder, and obligingly, Bruce swarmed up for a kiss, sinking his teeth into Clark’s lip, an unyielding warm texture that was quickly tugged free as Clark kissed Bruce back with determined, stubborn gentleness. Fumbling his cock free of his boxers and jeans, they ended up rutting against each other, Clark’s mouth pressed against Bruce’s neck, trembling with whimpers. Bruce closed his eyes, his breaths stuttering and desperate, and tried not to think about Clark’s teeth, so close to Bruce’s jugular. The smell of him, all artificial, drugstore aftershave, not even the hint of sweat.

Clark came with a sob, and his fingers skittered gently up Bruce’s spine as Clark sank bonelessly down against the stairs. “Touch me,” Bruce hissed against his ear, grabbing for Clark’s wrist, and tugging at it felt like he was pulling at a wall, immovable, until Clark let himself be moved, slipping his palm between them tentatively, grasping Bruce with the same awkward care, as though he was also made of glass. He didn’t try to squeeze, and thankfully, his touch was more than enough: Bruce groaned and bowed his head and spilled thickly over Clark’s bared belly, smearing over Bruce's shirt. 

“Oops,” Bruce drawled against Clark’s ear, as he tried to catch his breath. “Made a mess.” 

The ear reddened. Clark’s glasses were askew, and he adjusted them awkwardly. The hand on Bruce’s back had dropped to Bruce’s hip, and the one he had between them had crept up to their ribs. “Sorry,” Clark said, subdued.

“About what?” 

“I shouldn’t have written that feature.” 

Bruce tipped himself up on his elbows, frowning. “What feature?”

“The one I wrote about… about the things you said when we were um. The last time I was here.” Clark met his stare wanly. 

“I’m fairly sure you were quite complimentary,” Bruce pointed out, starting to grow puzzled. 

“Well uh, yes. But. I shouldn’t have done it. It wasn’t ethical. I mean. Sleeping with uh, subjects, writing stuff afterwards. Maybe you’re used to people using you,” Clark added, ploughing on determinedly despite Bruce’s arched eyebrow. “But I don’t want to be one of them.” 

“ _Now_ you’re worrying me,” Bruce drawled, though he studied Clark again, wary. Had Clark caught on? Bruce was fairly sure that he hadn’t given any hint that _he_ knew who Clark was-

“You do a lot for Gotham and you obviously care about people, no matter what the gossip pages might say. I think you deserve better,” Clark said, so goddamned earnest. Bruce’s lip curled, abruptly annoyed, and he welcomed the burst of familiar black temper, the cold wash of fury that tore his calculated strategy away. 

“‘Better’?” Bruce mimicked him flatly. “Who the hell do you think you are, Kent? There’s nothing wrong with how _I_ like to live _my_ life.” He hauled himself up, lip curled, strung tight with sudden loathing. “Get out.” 

Clark scrambled to his feet, disheveled and confused. “I didn’t mean it that way. I wasn’t judging you. I’m trying to say that I _admire_ you.” 

“Please. Julia told you I was a playboy. You said so yourself,” Bruce noted disdainfully. Was this Clark’s game? A countermove? Bruce would have to think about it in private. “Get out.” He stalked upstairs to the bathroom, closing the door loudly. Then he leaned against the door, rubbing a palm over his face, fluids tacky over his stomach, drying. Below, he could hear Clark starting to leave, shuffling his feet, and Bruce clenched a hand tightly over the doorknob until he heard the front door open and close. 

“Fuck,” Bruce whispered out aloud to himself, and grit his teeth so tightly that his jaw ached. He was going to have to be more careful.

i.

“Honestly, baby doll, you don’t need to sit around here all day,” Steve insisted, as Diana pressed a fresh glass of water into his hands. “I think I done told some nurses you were my niece, and some others that you were my daughter, and now nobody’s got their stories straight and they all think I’m a dirty old fart.” He grinned impishly, and there, in all that playful mischief, boyish despite the ruthless march of Father Time, was still the love of her life.

“No smoke without fire,” Diana said mildly, as Steve drank up, some water dribbling past his pursed and wrinkled lips. 

Mortality had crumpled the hale and handsome man she had first met on Paradise Island upon himself. His golden hair was snow white now, and had lost a pitched battle over his scalp to feather in fluffy clumps over his ears and the back of his head. Creased skin wreathed his face like webwork, his once ruler-straight back was hunched down, and his stick-thin hands shook with occasional tremors, liver-spotted and gnarled. Steve’s eyes laughed at her as she dabbed his mouth, and here, as before, she loved him still. Mortality, despite its pain, was what made human life beautiful, the span of their existences fierce and bright, like shooting stars. 

“How’s business?” 

“Doing good, doing good.” Diana set the glass aside. “Signed the documents for the takeover of the bottling plant today. And Wholefoods is going to stock most of our range. It’ll still be a while before everyone’s using planet-safe household products, but it’s a start.” 

“That ugly business about palm oil and its consequences, there's a story there.” 

“The company's been pushing it in the media for months. Sponsored articles, the lot.”

“Guess I’ve never learned how _not_ to tell you how to suck eggs,” Steve said, a little sheepishly. 

“Nothing of the sort. You’re meant to be resting, love. You broke your hip in that fall, remember?”

“Fractured, Di, _fractured_. I’m going to be a hundred years old next year, not decrepit.” 

It was one of Steve’s favourite jokes, and Diana forced a smile. As much as her people were used to humanity and its mortality, it never did get easier up close. The hospital didn’t help: as much as hospitals had changed in leaps and bounds since Diana’s first experience with them, seven decades ago, the sterile smell and the clinical little chambers still unsettled her. She hated seeing Steve like this as well, diminished in his blue hospital gown, propped up on the narrow bed like an invalid. 

“You’re in a good mood,” she said instead. 

“Sure am. Got a visitor in the morning, while you were off becoming the next Bill Gates,” Steve groped for his phone, unlocked it shakily, and tapped at it until he got, patiently, to the photo app. Steve had never really adjusted well to modern technology and its advancements. Diana, on the other hand, was still living in a relatively primitive society compared to what she had been used to on the Island. “Here.”

On the screen, Steve was grinning next to an old man, though not quite as elderly as Steve, perhaps in his eighties, an African-American with close-cropped silver hair and a gentle, grave smile. Whoever it was had dressed up for the visit, in a charcoal suit and tie. “Remember him?”

“No?” Diana frowned at the screen. 

“It’s _Lucius_ , Di. Lucius Fox. His parents lived next to us for a bit in Metropolis, remember? He was the kid who was always building stuff. Hell, he built a radio out of _scrap_ when he was maybe ten, twelve. His mammy was damn proud. Showed it all around. You offered to pay twenty dollars for it on the spot, made him puff up like anything.”

“I don’t remember,” Diana admitted. Adjusting to life in ‘Man’s world’ had been an utter culture shock for years, much of it spent being horrified by how humanity treated each other based on trivialities like gender and skin colour. In many ways, it still _was_ a shock. 

“Maybe. Was a long time ago. I don’t know how he got wind of me being here either, but he came to say hi, and we talked. He’s a grandfather now,” Steve said, and he couldn’t quite hide his wistfulness. Diana looked away. For whatever reason, she’d never been able to have children with Steve, and they hadn’t wanted to risk going to a doctor, with her physiology. “He had two daughters.” 

“Had?” 

“One of them was in Wayne Tower in Metropolis. When… when that day happened.” 

“Ah.” Diana blinked. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Lucius worked for Wayne Enterprises pretty much his whole life. Got to be CEO too, before he retired. His surviving daughter’s the CEO now. Tam Fox.” 

“I’ve heard of her,” Diana allowed. “She’s brilliant.” 

“I think that’s why Lucius came to talk to me,” Steve said wryly. “On account of me being old and probably not being here on God’s earth much longer. He said, he thinks Tam’s getting herself into more trouble than she can handle. She’s picking a rum one, for an enemy.” 

“… Superman,” Diana said softly. It hadn’t been a secret, in a way, even if Bruce Wayne was the face of Remembrance. Of course Tam was involved. 

“You got that in one.” Steve patted Diana’s wrist, stroking her skin gently. “Di. I owe you my life many times over, and I haven’t been the best husband to you. I still got bad habits from way back, and you’ve been hella patient with me all this time. You’ve kept me going this far… you’ve been keeping me _alive_ , even. You’ve always been there for me. So I got no right to ask.” 

“Then don’t,” Diana squeezed Steve’s hand lightly. “You don’t need to. I would have gone to speak to her anyway.” 

“Talk to Lucius first. I’ll send you his number.” Steve smiled, openly relieved. “Maybe you could talk her out of all this.” Left unspoken was, _Maybe you don’t have to fight the Superman_. 

Diana smiled in response. Steve _did_ still have bad habits. “Maybe,” she said casually. 

“‘Course,” Steve added quickly, catching on, “If you did have to uh. Get into a scrap. I ain’t ever seen you beat.” 

“And you never will,” Diana reminded him dryly, amused, squeezing Steve’s hand again. Seven decades, and some things were never going to change.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Superman, 29th of February… (though, Clark Kent celebrates his birthday on June 18, the day the Kents found him).

2.0.

The novelty of having a birthday that fell on a leap day meant that the Daily Planet had actually bothered to mobilise for cake, even though Clark was a lowly stringer. It didn’t matter that Clark had feebly protested that he didn’t actually celebrate his birthday - he preferred to celebrate the day that his parents had found him. Cake was in the plan, and even Perry descended from on high into the Farm, where a table had been ceremoniously cleared of pens and drafts.

Clark stammered through a thank-you speech under Lois’ instigation, blew out the candles as gently as he could, and hid behind Steve Lombard in relief as the cake-deprived staff swarmed the table, buoyed by Monday blues. With a piece of cake smeared onto a paper towel in his hand, Clark retreated gratefully to a safe corner. HR had acquired the cake, which meant that it was really a giant vanilla slice from the closest supermarket, the icing the colour of plaster and the sponge dyed an alarming shade of acid yellow. 

“Doing all right?” Perry materialized at Clark’s elbow. 

The editor of the Daily Planet ran the paper with the lockstep discipline of a drill sergeant, always prowling out from his office to terrorize permanent staff and stringers alike. His bullish fearlessness translated well into print, making the Daily Planet one of the finest independent news sources on earth, in Clark’s perhaps biased opinion, and irascible and unforgiving as Perry could be, he _was_ the Daily Planet. Clark liked him.

“Fine,” Clark murmured. The cake tasted like it had been carved out of a block of sugar, and the frosting was getting everywhere. 

“Good work on the earthquake,” Perry offered gruffly, to Clark’s surprise. Perry had never said a word about the quality of Clark’s work before, other than grinding it down the usual editorial process that everyone else went through. 

“Thanks,” Clark said, pleased. “I’m getting better at writing ledes. Lois didn’t even have to help out this time.” 

Perry stared at him with mild surprise, then he said, dryly, “Kent. I meant. Good _work_.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Thankfully, cake frenzy had set in, and no one was paying them the remotest bit of attention. “Thanks.” 

Perry was eyeing him with the stormy frown that tended to coalesce on his face whenever eviscerating a particularly bad piece of copy, and finally, he exhaled. “That article you did on Remembrance. I was tempted not to run it.”

“Well uh, that’s, up to you. You’re the editor. It wasn’t that bad, was it?” Clark asked, concerned. He’d written it in a bit of a daze. 

“Obviously it wasn’t. First time you made it to the ‘Most Read’ panel online, too.” Perry reminded him. “Readers liked it.”

“You didn’t.” 

“Yeah.” Perry said evenly. “I didn’t.” Before Clark could respond, though, Perry stalked back towards his office, cake held high, leaving Clark to stare at his broad back with a familiar sense of defeated incomprehension. 

“Sometimes I have no idea what he’s trying to tell me,” Clark told Lois, who had made it out of the scrum with not just cake but a plastic fork. 

“Perry? Don’t let him get to you. He’s like that with everyone.” Lois picked at the cake. “Ooh. Vanilla. My favourite.” 

Clark wordlessly handed over his piece, which Lois accepted with feigned reluctance. “He said he didn’t like my Wayne feature. He didn’t have to approve it.”

Lois arched an eyebrow, amused. “Haven’t you noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“For a stringer, you have a phenomenal success rate with articles. Everyone else’s picked up on it. _All_ your articles have been approved, ever. Some of them have been through extensive rewrites and knockbacks, sure. But Perry inevitably approves whatever you put forward.”

“Well um,” Clark said, blinking, “A lot of my stuff is just first responder scoop, really. Overseas, where there isn’t alot of uh, Daily Planet rep on the ground.”

“Sure, there’s that. But all the features you do now and then get through too. There’s a running joke over at Finished Art that you could probably write a feature article discussing the state of _lawn bowling_ in Australia, and it’d still get through.” 

“That’s…” Clark hesitated, uncertain. He’d never really gotten to know many of the other stringers: the only people he really talked to in the Daily Planet were Perry, Lois and Steve. “Is that weird?” 

“Clark, you’re really nice. But you’re not exactly Thomas Friedman or anything,” Lois said kindly. “Hey, cheer up! You might not be Pulitzer material yet, but you do decent work.” 

“Even on lawn bowling?” Clark asked, his tone edged. 

“Joke, it was a joke,” Lois pointed out patiently. “Jesus, Clark. You’ve been jumpy today. What the hell happened to you last night?” 

“I uh.” Clark coughed. “Nothing.” 

“Bullshit, you’re turning bright red,” Lois teased. “Seriously, I’m not going to get angry or whatever you think. You went on a date?” 

“Not really… sort of?” Clark was _not_ going to think about how Bruce looked and felt, braced between Clark’s legs, greedy as anything and _no_. 

“Lucky dog,” Lois grinned. “Tried Tinder like I suggested?”

“Err no, was uh, someone I met. From before. And it didn’t work out,” Clark added quickly. “We uh, had an argument actually. Bad one. Think it was my fault.” 

“Oh.” Lois sobered up. “Tried calling up to apologise? That usually helps, if you do enough grovelling.”

“Not answering calls. Or texts. Or emails.” 

“Well then, maybe it’s a matter of just waiting for it to blow over,” Lois said sympathetically. “Cheer up, Smallville. It’s your _birthday_. Take an early day off. Go home and see your mum. What’s the point of working part time if you can’t take a break now and then?” 

Clark did take an early day off, though he didn’t go back to Kansas like she’d suggested. The comment Lois had made on Perry was weighing on his mind, and he only knew one person who might have the answer. Lieutenant General Swanwick of the United States Northern Command looked tired in the bunker under Peterson Air Force, and he seemed to have aged considerably over the past few years, his hair peppered with silver over his austere face. He was in uniform, tie and all, and seemed unsurprised to find Clark abruptly in the bunker minutes after they’d agreed over the phone to meet. 

“Seems it’s your birthday,” Swanwick said neutrally. “So. Happy Birthday, Kent.” 

“Thanks.” Clark had decided to change into the suit, just in case he was somehow spotted on the way in and broke his cover, and his cloak flowed against the chair as Swanwick waved him to a seat at the bolted table. The bunker was starkly empty, with only a long table and half a dozen chairs, and an LED screen on one gray wall that was blank. Swanwick sat opposite Clark at the table, resting his elbows on the polished steel. 

“What can I do for you?” 

“General… when the government arranged for me to be placed in the Daily Planet, did they… you… tell Perry White to publish everything I ever put forward?”

Swanwick raised his eyebrows, clearly not having expected the question, then he let out a startled laugh. “Is _that_ it?”

“It’s important to me,” Clark said evenly. 

“I’m not privy to the details,” Swanwick shrugged, “But I presume that given you were more or less pushed onto White’s plate, he probably decided, being a big fan of the President and all, to go above and beyond.” 

“You didn’t make the deal?”

“Kent,” Swanwick said patiently, “I’m a _General_ , not a backroom Washington broker, thank God. Whatever deal they cut with White, even if they did have something in writing, it wouldn’t have _my_ signature on it. It would be the President’s.”

“Oh. Uhm. Sorry,” Clark muttered, a little shamefaced.

“Besides,” Swanwick added thoughtfully, “Where I - and the Pentagon - were concerned… we rather felt that getting you dropped into the role of a goddamned reporter was a fucking waste. In _our_ opinion, you should’ve been given to the Army. Or the Marines, or Air Force, whichever. Either managed on your own as an asset or as part of a unit.”

“Really?” When the call had come to Kansas for Clark to show up for a meet and greet at the Daily Planet despite Clark not having a college degree, he had thought that it had Swanwick’s fingerprints all over it. Even if the General hadn’t been at the meeting, just White and some friendly, smiling young lawyer in a sharp suit. “Then how did I end up at the Daily Planet?”

Swanwick eyed Clark thoughtfully. “Before I answer that… Tell me honestly, son. Do you like it there? Doing what you do? You don’t have to feel like you need to protect White or anyone.”

“Well… yeah,” Clark said quickly. “I really like it there. At least, up until today, when I found out that maybe my work was getting published even though it might not be up to scratch.” 

“And that bothers you?”

“Of course it does! It’s unfair to everyone else.” 

To Clark’s surprise, Swanwick actually started to chuckle. He rubbed a palm over the back of his neck, and relaxed into his chair. “All right, Kent. You ended up at the Daily Planet instead of in the military, or in peacekeeping, or NASA, or anywhere useful - because of the President. He intervened personally.” 

“Why would he do that?” Clark asked, bewildered.

“Oh, believe me, we _all_ made a fuss. Each one of his Generals, his Chief of Staff, even his own Veep. I told him myself that it was a mistake. That for you to sit your ass out and just intervene in whatever you like was not only asking for a flaming disaster to happen, but it was an incredible and unprecedented waste of an asset. An _American_ asset. Like you told me, you’re a Kansas boy. And the world was already going to hell all around us. Syria, Libya, Somalia, the Congo, North Korea…” Swanwick trailed off, with a wry laugh. “But he overruled us all.” 

Would Clark had intervened? Joined the military? He wasn’t so sure. To prevent war? To stem the bestial tide of death and suffering? “I’m surprised.”

“He said he wanted you to respond to the problems in the world that no one else could fix. Help people whom no one else could help. And whatever you did, he wanted you to write about it after. Because when someone writes about something, they have to think it through - especially if they’re a reporter. He wanted to understand you. And most of all,” Swanwick said ruefully, “He wanted to know how human you really are. As to that, he said that he was optimistic.” 

“I… I see.” Clark had only ever met the President once. On hindsight, it was a privilege that he had under-appreciated even at the time. 

“And he wanted you to cover that Wayne event,” Swanwick added. “Called me to the White House to talk about it before he sent the memo out to Perry White. He wanted to know, in my honest opinion, whether you were likely to react badly. I said you wouldn’t. Thanks for proving me right, by the way. If something had happened to Bruce Wayne, I’d probably be out of a job now.” He smiled, all sharp humour. 

“Thanks for the… vote of confidence?” So _that’s_ why Perry had sent Clark instead of Lois. Even the other press corps had been mildly surprised to see him. 

“And you know what? That feature article you wrote afterwards?” Swanwick shrugged. “I don’t know how you got access to Bruce Wayne. But I think it proved the President right after all. Hell, _I_ wouldn’t have tried so hard to understand people who didn’t like me. Let alone talk to someone who raised a hundred and fifty million bucks to prove a point against me.”

“Wayne _does_ have a point.”

“You’re talking to an American General about civilian casualties,” Swanwick pointed out wryly. “Want my opinion? There was a war going on. Unfortunate things happen.”

“I…” Clark swallowed. He didn’t quite agree, but there wasn’t going to be any use arguing the point. “General… thanks. I never said it before. Even if it didn’t work out the way you wanted.”

Swanwick made an expansive gesture, palms out. “I live in hope. Maybe someday you’d get bored of being a reporter and come over to the military where you belong.” 

“I don’t think so,” Clark said, with a faint smile. “But in the meantime. Could you uh. Get a word to Washington?”

“I’ll see what I can do, Kent.”

ii.

Lucius Fox had retired in an expansive ranch an hour out from Gotham City, and as Diana rode in on her electric Harley, for a moment she sped past a large paddock, and was raced by a dapple stallion, the young horse tossing its mane and whinnying at her with playful challenge. She grinned back at it, waving when it gave up, snorting and stamping, and was in a far better mood as she pulled up the driveway of the oddly small farmhouse. Diana had dressed for the long ride, with knee-high boots, gray jeans and a butter-soft leather jacket, buckled up and zipped, and as she parked the bike to the side and pulled off her helmet, the front door to the brick house opened.

“Mrs Trevor,” Lucius said wryly, as he shuffled out of the door. He had dressed up for the visit, with a pressed shirt, vest and tie, and a mottled black and white, fluffy big farm dog of indeterminate breed bowled out from behind him, panting excitedly, padding up to sniff Diana’s hands with doggy ecstasy. “Don’t mind Lou. She loves visitors. Come on in.”

They sat in the living room before the empty fireplace, sinking into overstuffed leather couches. The mantlepiece was thick with framed photographs, mostly of two little girls, Lucius, and some smiling, fiercely joyous woman, usually in a flower-print frock. “My late wife,” Lucius caught Diana staring. “Tanya. And my two daughters, Tam and Tiff. And at the end, my little granddaughter Tina. Light of my life.” 

Diana dutifully admired the photographs, until even Lou had settled down by the fireplace. The farmhouse smelled homely, of warm coffee and woodsmoke and something baking in the kitchen; for a moment, Diana was envious. _Her_ usual home now was a starkly empty apartment, with Steve having to live in a nursing home. 

“Let’s get to the point, shall we?” Diana said, when the pleasantries were over and done with. “Yes. I haven’t aged. And you probably noticed. I don’t think you just visited Steve because you suddenly missed him or felt sorry for him.”

Lucius sighed. “Mrs Trevor-“

“Diana, please.”

“Diana, Steve and I used to exchange letters. First written ones, then emails. It wasn’t really often, sure. But his opinion always did mean a lot to me. Back when I got rejected over and over for an engineer’s position, he was the one who told me not to give up. Getting a job as an engineer way back then, as a black man, was pretty damned tough, starting out. And I don’t know if you know this, but he hit up his veteran buddy network to get me considered for Wayne Enterprises’ fledgling technology arm.”

“Ah.” Diana fidgeted, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Lucius. I thought-“

He raised a palm gently. “That being said, you’re right. You’ve done your best to cover your tracks, but you haven’t aged. And since I’ve done _my_ best to find ways to pay Steve back over the years, I’ve been keeping an eye on you too. It was obvious to me even as a kid way back that there was something different about you.”

Diana was going to have to be more careful. “I see.”

“More relevantly… the Waynes were approached to help fund the Justice Society of America,” Lucius smiled faintly. “Remember them? I got a full brief, since the Waynes were also considering supplying them with tech.”

“Ah. Yes.” Diana pulled a face. “ _Them_.” 

“I don’t know what made me more surprised later, watching the footage,” Lucius said wryly, “That I’d recognised you and you hadn’t aged, or that you bent a crowbar like it was nothing, or, after they’d put you through all them tests that none of the rest of them boys had to sit through, they asked you to join them as their _secretary_.” 

“Believe me,” Diana said evenly, “ _I_ was surprised.” 

“Walking out was for the best. After Martha Wayne saw that tape, she and Thomas withdrew their funding from the JSA program, and it went bust. That’s karma for you.” 

“Some things don’t change,” Diana noted grimly. “Look at this country. Your most successful athlete is a black woman. And her victories are ‘celebrated’ with hatred. Look at your politics. Why is it that the only candidate who needs to answer questions about being ‘likeable’ is a woman? Why is it that a woman’s choices over her own body are still a matter of legislative contention? I could go on. Sure, it’s far better now than it was before, when I first came to live in this country. But to tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking hard about going home. I’ve just been waiting for Steve to pass on.”

“I understand,” Lucius said gently, though he was clearly disappointed. “And I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“However,” Diana added wryly, “Steve does want me to help. So. Here I am. I’ll talk to your daughter for you, at the least.”

“She won’t be swayed,” Lucius predicted wearily. “It’s personal for her. God, it’s personal for _me_ too. But I’m not ruled by anger, or hatred. Tam? She’s been working with Bruce Wayne for far too damned long.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Diana assured him.

“But first, if I could ask…” Lucius trailed off, a little hesitant now. “You don’t age. And you’re… you’re superhuman. You’re fast, you seem invulnerable, and you’re incredibly strong. Are you…?” 

Diana laughed, startled. “You’re asking me if I’m Kryptonian as well? No. No, of course not. I was born on Earth. As were my sisters. We’re different, certainly, but we _are_ human. Is that good enough for you?” 

“Diana, I would’ve accepted help from a _dalek_ if it could’ve gotten my daughter out of this mess,” Lucius reached over, to shake Diana’s hand. His palm was warm, and it trembled, the only visible sign of the depth of his emotion. “Thank you. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Jimmy Olsen now Jenny Olsen? Buzzfeed isn’t so sure: http://www.buzzfeed.com/donnad/where-is-jimmy-olsen-in-the-new-man-of-steel-movie#.rsq5l3kO2 so I’m probably just not going to mention Jenny or Jimmy Olsen in this fic, if only because I’ll have to totally make him/her up (No familiarity with the character).
> 
> Black engineers, NASA, and the civil rights revolution:  
> http://www.airspacemag.com/history-of-flight/how-nasa-joined-civil-rights-revolution-180949497/?no-ist
> 
> On Diana's comments, some further reading:  
> http://www.vox.com/2015/3/11/8189679/serena-williams-indian-wells-racism  
> http://www.bustle.com/articles/116745-why-hillary-clinton-shouldnt-have-to-prove-shes-likable  
> http://www.rollingstone.com/tv/news/watch-john-oliver-highlight-absurdity-of-abortion-laws-20160222
> 
> Yes the secretary "offer" was actually a thing. Sadly she didn't walk out in canon.


	4. Chapter 4

III.

“Let me make this clear,” Tam said, as she climbed into the black Tesla sedan, fresh out of the Wayne Industries private jet, “Yes, we are going to meet my dad in the R&D lab. Yes, I’m sure he’s up to something, and that’s why I asked you to come along. But _I_ want to run the meeting. _You_ are there to make the occasional approving sound at appropriate intervals.”

“All right,” Bruce raised his eyebrows. In front, at the driver’s seat, he could hear Alfred hastily stifling a laugh by coughing.

Tam stared at Bruce, surprised. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“No ‘Now, Tam…’, or ‘I know how to handle Lucius’?” 

“Have I ever said that to you?” 

Tam sniffed. “Yes you have. Actually.” 

“Then I’m sorry about it now,” Bruce said blandly. This didn’t seem to settle Tam down: she eyeballed him with increasing suspicion. 

“All right, confess,” Tam said tartly. “What did you do now?”

“Nothing?” 

“Alfred said you hadn’t been sleeping.” 

“I’m in my mid-forties,” Bruce pointed out patiently, gritting his teeth. “I outgrew coddling three _decades_ ago.” 

“Is this about whomever you slept with in Metropolis?” 

Bruce kept a carefully straight face. “No…? Why do you ask?”

“Because a once off thing you seem to be OK with,” Tam said mildly, “But once it goes two and up you seem to turn into kinda a flaming mess.” Bruce let out a deep sigh. “Well, fine,” Tam added more kindly. “Just hold it together, all right? Seriously, Bruce. For someone so obscenely wealthy, you seem pathologically incapable of enjoying life.” 

“Says someone who’s also obscenely wealthy.”

“Don’t look at me, I’m doing all right. Anyway. We closed the supply deal in London and after this I’m going to have to jet off down to the facility in Houston-“ 

Tam kept up a running update of the company in the same briskly efficient tone that she used with shareholders, and Bruce smiled, made approving noises, and sank back against fine leather, distracted. He _had_ been thinking about Clark. Hard not to, with Clark so determinedly trying to contact him. From the tone of the emails and the notes, Clark seemed contrite, anxious to be forgiven, even, and Bruce had the sinking feeling that Clark could quite possibly patiently keep it up forever until he got what he wanted. Not that Bruce had really been planning on cutting him off. A few hours spent with coffee and Computer had assured Bruce that Clark had certainly not been hiding some sort of countermeasure- 

“Hey. Bruce?” Tam prodded Bruce in the arm. He blinked at her, owlishly, and she hastily schooled her concerned expression into a little frown. “Zoning off already? Did you sleep last night at all?”

“I don’t need Alfred 2.0, Tam.”

“Master Bruce rested for three hours during the night,” Alfred reported from the driver’s seat. 

“All right, you two,” Bruce began severely, just as his phone buzzed him. It was Barbara Gordon, and he held up a hand, picking up on the second ring. “Commissioner.” 

“How is it that you’ve put up the cape but you’re _still_ causing trouble for Gotham PD?” Barbara demanded without preamble. 

“Wait. What did I do now? Allegedly?” 

“Haven’t been watching the news?” 

“Been kind of busy.” 

“Amazing. So you really have no idea,” Barbara said tartly. “Heard of the so-called False God movement?” 

Bruce mouthed ‘False God?’ at Tam, who frowned at him and fished out her iPad from her laptop bag. “Afraid not.” 

“It’s been creeping along for years. Fringe movement. But after that stunt you pulled in Metropolis, it’s finally gained traction. Protests in other cities, mostly peaceful, some petty vandalism. So it fucking stands to reason that it’s in _Gotham_ that they decided to set shit on fire.” 

“What?” Bruce took the iPad. Tam had opened up a browser to CNN, and crowded under headline Super Tuesday news was ‘ _False God Protests Heat Up in Gotham_ ’. That opened up to a news story under a photograph that looked like a war zone shot at night, with police arresting masked people, backlit by flames. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah,” Barbara growled. “It’s going to get worse. Haven’t you been following politics? Superman’s now a key topic in _everyone’s_ policies. And where we’ve got one party pushing out a lot of hate, in some places it boils over.” 

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Not this time,” Barbara said grimly. “Bruce, I know you’re still angry over what happened in Metropolis. But maybe this isn’t _your_ problem.”

“Then whose?” Bruce shot back. “The government seems happy to let him get away with it. Who’s left? And what happens next time, if it happens again?”

“And you’re going to bring him to justice… how exactly?” Barbara asked gently. “You’re only human, Bruce.” 

“It’s too late for justice,” Bruce said wearily. “That’s why I didn’t mention it when we launched Remembrance. It’s about accountability. And more, call me curious. Five thousand people died. I want to know if he even _cares_. How much the rest of _us_ care, or whether we’re so desperate for a messiah that we’ll accept one who can’t see the _blood on his hands_.”

“That’s the Bruce I remember,” Barbara snapped. “Unforgiving to the bitter end.”

Tam was sober as they pulled up under Wayne Enterprises’ new R&D block. It was on the outskirts of Gotham, if on the opposite side of the city as the airport, in a high security block of land with two checkpoints. Despite Lucius’ retirement, Bruce had never gotten around to rescinding his security clearance, and now, as Alfred slotted the car neatly into Tam’s reserved space, Bruce wondered whether that might have been a bit of an oversight. Lucius had been adamantly against Remembrance from the very beginning. 

“All right?” Tam murmured to Bruce, as they left Alfred with the car and headed up the alone, scanning their retinas. 

“Yeah.” 

“She’ll get over it.” 

“Tam,” Bruce said evenly, “We got into this knowing that we were going to lose some friends. And we have. Whether or not Barbara ‘gets over it’ isn’t going to change my opinion.” 

“Good.”

“But get Bradley to push out some press statement or other about not condoning violence etcetera, whatever. Curtis can approve it.”

“Not condoning violence? From you? Oh, the irony,” Tam snickered, and Bruce pretended to scowl at her. Barbara may have accidentally found out about who Bruce used to be from her father, on the day that the Bat-signal was removed from the roof of the Gotham police precinct, but Tam’s knowledge had been an executive decision on Bruce’s part, and some days he regretted it.

Lucius was in Tam’s onsite office - once his own office - and since she didn’t use it much, it was clinically empty. A one way glass wall looked out over one of the main R&D manufacturing floors, and the air smelled of air freshener and faintly boiled plastic. A piece of impersonal modern art was the only source of colour in the room, hung up on the wall over the glass desk and the dormant computer terminal, the high chair pushed in. Lucius was lounging at the black leather couch to the right of the door, while in the guest chair by the desk was a stranger. 

“Tam, Bruce,” Lucius rose from the couch, a little creakily. “This is Diana. She’s the wife of one of my very old friends.” 

“Good afternoon.” Diana had an odd accent, vaguely Grecian, smoky and exotic, and her grip was firm as she got up to shake Tam’s hand, then Bruce’s. She had Mediterranean looks, darkly beautiful, with lush walnut hair that poured over her shoulders, and archly amused eyes. She was dressed in a pale brown Burberry trench, winched over her hips with a belt, a black blouse and tailored trousers that brushed down over sensible pumps. Her hand had been oddly rough, and her smile and poise broadcasted quiet confidence. 

“Nice to meet you,” Tam smiled back. “What’s this about, Dad? We could’ve met for lunch in Gotham.” 

“Nothing I’m gonna say now is going to make any sense. So I’m going to show you an old video instead,” Lucius wandered over to the desk, switching on the computer. Diana pushed her hands into her coat, and leaned a hip against the table as Lucius swivelled the screen around. 

“That’s not your usual username,” Tam noted. 

“No, it’s not. I encrypted this video into the servers a decade or so ago. Before that, I took the original and only copy from the archives. After transferring it to digital, I destroyed it. Here.” The video started up, grainy and in black and white. Someone peered into it, a masked man with a costume in stripes and stars, and said something offscreen. There was no audio. Behind the masked man were a few others, all men, all in cowls or masks that hid their faces, their costumes all vaguely different. 

“What’s this?” Tam asked, puzzled. 

“That’s the JSA,” Bruce said quietly. He had studied the careers of some members of the ill-fated JSA when creating his Batman persona. On the screen, Stripes and Stars held up a slate, upon which had been scrawled in chalk: _Wonder Woman Trial_. The slate was pulled away, and a woman walked into frame from further away, all quiet confidence, dressed in black from head to toe. It was Diana. 

Bruce looked up sharply at Diana, who inclined her head lightly. On screen, Stars and Stripes passed Diana a crowbar, which she transferred from hand to hand for a moment before abruptly bending, with no apparent effort. A ripple of shock visibly went through the JSA members, many turning and whispering to each other. 

“Strength… Speed… Invulnerable skin?” Bruce stared warily at Diana as the trials in the silent film proceeded. “Immortality?”

“Before you ask, no, I’m not Kryptonian. I’m human.” Diana replied mildly. Tam was still watching, seemingly oblivious now to them all.

“What else are you?” 

“Would you believe me if I said I was from a secret female society with highly advanced technology that the rest of the world once called the Amazons?” 

“When you have eliminated the impossible… then it falls to whatever remains,” Bruce said, blinking. “And I would say that secret high tech societies are _fairly_ impossible, particularly in the age of satellite technology.”

“Sounds like a superhero comic book’s backstory,” Tam agreed, narrow-eyed. On screen, Diana waited calmly as the JSA spoke quietly between themselves. “A very _lame_ comic book.”

“Life’s often stranger than fiction.” 

“It isn’t more improbable than the fact that our First Contact event was with aliens that look exactly like Caucasian humans,” Bruce pointed out grimly. “So-“

Tam stilled him with a palm against his elbow. “Dad, what’s this about?” 

“I’m just here to introduce Diana to you. And Bruce. Now I’ll let you lot be. I’m going to catch up with some old friends around here.” Lucius shuffled out, closing the door behind him as he went. They stood in awkward silence for a moment until Tam let out a loud sigh and circled the desk, settling down in the high seat. Bruce slouched into the guest chair, and Diana remained where she was, though she folded her arms. 

“Are you here to help, or talk me out of this? Because if it’s the latter, you’re not the first by a long shot,” Tam said briskly. Bruce wasn’t really listening. On screen, the JSA and Diana were arguing.

“So I’ve been made aware.” 

“What happened?” Bruce inclined his chin at the screen.

Diana smiled. “They asked me to be their secretary.” 

“Fuck that,” Tam burst out, astonished. “Even after all those trials? What, were the JSA all superhumans?” 

“Not at all. From their files.” As Bruce watched, Diana stalked off camera, and the film cut off, the screen going dark. 

“It was a long time ago,” Diana said serenely. “You should’ve seen the costume they wanted me to wear as well.”

“Bad?” Tam asked sympathetically.

“I told them I was auditioning for the position of a warrior, not a swimsuit model.” 

Tam laughed. “If you’re really from some secret advanced all-female society, why the hell did you leave?” 

“For love,” Diana said wryly. “But that’s almost over. The man I fell in love with will be a hundred years old soon. And he has the complications of age. We knew your father when he was still a child, growing up in a tiny flat in a cheap neighborhood.” 

“That’s nice,” Tam said, with pointed disinterest. “Crazy as your story is. But I’m still not sure what you’re here for. If you’re here to talk me out of Remembrance, it’s personal for me. And even if it wasn’t, I’d support Bruce here regardless. If you’re here to help, we’re actually _not_ looking to get into _another_ superpowered throwdown with Superman.”

“You have a daughter.”

“Yeah,” Tam bristled. “And I don’t want her to grow up in a world where five thousand people can die on American soil, and the whole country can just write it all off.”

Diana sighed. “Last year, some thirteen thousand people died on American soil thanks to firearms. We write it off collectively. Year after year.”

“And murderers get arrested. They go to jail.” Bruce shot back. “This isn’t about a calculus of who-does-what-worse. And those thirteen thousand deaths weren’t all by a single person.”

“Neither was this just by the Superman. He was fighting with another Kryptonian, was he not? For the very first time, he would have been fighting. With someone of his own kin, with the same powers. A green warrior makes mistakes.” 

Tam bristled. “And that’s it? ‘Sorry, a lot of people died during a brawl. We made a mistake?’ When some idiots have a shootout and the bullets clip civilians, we don’t just wipe the accidental deaths off the board.” 

“Not for humans, no. The Superman isn’t human,” Diana pointed out.

“I’m not interested in talking about legal liability,” Bruce retorted. “I’m well-aware that’s going to be shaky with nonhumans. And I’m aware that accountability is a matter of social construction. There are humans on this earth who, thanks to the social power that they have, can cause atrocities and get away with it. But they _are_ humans, and as a species, collectively, we judge our own when they do something with lethal consequences. If we hold the Superman to a different moral standard, I want to know why.”

“He’s not a dictator,” Diana said gently.

“Nor is he just some asshole who accidentally hit someone with a car while swerving to avoid someone else. Unavoidable accidental consequence? Maybe. But we’re talking about _Superman_. Someone - _something_ \- that’s stronger than anything we’ve ever seen. Flight, strength, speed, invulnerability, lasers from his eyes…” Bruce shook his head grimly. “He’s a walking A-bomb. And we’re letting him totally off the hook. Maybe this time round was something that rose out of how green he was, or whatever it is. But he’s going to be _just as green the next time_. It’s not like he has anything here on Earth to hone himself against. What are we going to do the next time, and the next, if what he learns from Ground Zero is that the ends justify the means?” 

Diana looked away, pursing her lips. Finally, she said, “All right, Mister Wayne. You haven’t completely convinced me, but since Lucius and I have history, and you do make a good argument, I’ll like to help. You might not be looking to ‘get into a throwdown’, but if it comes to that, I’ll be there.”

Bruce left Tam to work out the details with Diana, and wandered out into R&D, looking for Lucius. Of all the friends he had bled off because of Remembrance, Lucius was the one he regretted the most. Given how large the R&D building was, however, Bruce found himself walking in circles, and eventually gave up, especially when Lucius wasn’t answering his phone. Retracing his steps past the labs towards the admin block, Bruce came to a stop when his phone buzzed.

It was Clark. 

Staring at the phone for a long moment, eventually, Bruce exhaled loudly, found an empty side room, and closed himself inside, picking up. “Kent.” 

“Hey,” Clark said softly. Wherever he was, the reception was poor: the phone crackled faintly, and in the background, Bruce could hear the sea. “Sorry, is this a bad time?” 

“It’s usually a bad time,” Bruce said coolly. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to apologise for before. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

Bruce leaned his shoulder against the wall, exasperated. He wasn’t in the mood for this, and was about to hang up, when Clark added, “Can I ask you something?” Before Bruce could respond, Clark continued in a rush, “Say that you’ve been told you shouldn’t do something, because it’ll make something complicated, but if you don’t do it, other people suffer. What would you do?” 

“That’s,” Bruce said, frowning, “A very strange question.”

“I know,” Clark said, subdued. “Sorry. I shouldn’t… I mean. I just wanted to know. What the right thing would be.”

Was Clark referring to Ground Zero? Curious now, Bruce asked, “I can’t get any other details to this hypothetical?”

“No uh. It’s work, you see. Kinda confidential.” 

“Like a scoop? An exposé?”

“Not really. Kind of.” 

“Well,” Bruce said, carefully tamping down his irritation, “What do you feel is the right thing to do? Gut feeling?”

“To help,” Clark said unhesitatingly.

“Can you do it without getting caught?”

“I… don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Jesus, Kent. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No. Not really. Uh. Getting some static.” There was a brief, strange whistling sound, like wind through a funnel, then Clark added, "All right. All done." When Bruce didn’t answer, Clark cleared his throat. “Listen, um. I know you’re very busy, and you’re still mad at me, but. I enjoyed dinner. And what we talked about. And before as well. And I’m sorry about what happened. And I kinda feel bad that you paid for dinner, and-“ Bruce let Clark stammer his way into silence. The residual anger and wariness that Bruce felt was slowly being replaced by sharp amusement, all over again. Clark was dangerous. 

“Is there a point to this?”

“I was kinda… wondering if you wanted to, when you’re next free or in Metropolis, uhm, that is, free _and_ in Metropolis for dinner. I mean, whether you’re. Nevermind,” Clark said in a small voice, giving up, and despite himself, Bruce started to laugh. It had been entirely involuntary. 

“Tomorrow night.” 

“Tomorr… really? Wow. I mean. Sure. Tomorrow.” Clark sounded like he had just brightened up. Bruce rubbed a hand over his eyes after the call, and picked his way back to Tam’s office, where he found Tam and Diana hunched over Tam’s phone. 

“Huh,” Tam said, when Bruce approached. “Seems a whole bunch of confused refugees abruptly appeared on a beach. One moment they were starting to sink in the middle of the sea, the next they’re on dry land. They’re calling it a miracle. _I_ think our friend’s starting to branch out.” 

_That_ was Clark’s idea of not getting caught? Bruce sighed. “Welcome to the team,” he told Diana instead, and she smiled faintly. 

“I see your playboy reputation was unfounded after all, Mister Wayne.”

“People change.” Bruce offered breezily, sinking back into the guest chair, and Diana studied him thoughtfully for a moment, frowning to herself before turning away.


	5. Chapter 5

3.0.

Part of The Deal, as Clark thought of the semi-secret handshake agreement he had with Washington, meant that he had to show up once a month at Area 51, usually to allow random cadres of scientists an hour or so to geek out over how he bent the laws of physics. Martha Kent had been considerably dubious about this part of the arrangement at the start, at least until Swanwick had called her personally to soothe ruffled feathers, but even now she made Clark check in with her afterwards, forever worried. Clark didn’t really see what the problem was. It wasn’t as though anything he’d seen in Area 51 could remotely hurt him.

Today’s scientist cadre was from MIT, and they’d been running some strange tests where Clark floated himself a foot off the ground and the youngest scientist tried to move him in various directions, all the while with sensor pads hooked up to Clark’s arms and chest. Usually, Clark liked the company, but today the MIT scientists had started squabbling early among themselves, something about Newton’s law and gravitational computations, and Clark had tuned them out, bored. 

Half an hour in and there was an unscheduled interruption. The scientists stared, betrayed, as the duty sergeant poked her head into the room and told Clark that he had company, and he left her gratefully to sort out the protests as he pulled the top of his suit back on and followed a private out of the labs. To Clark’s surprise, instead of heading deeper into the weapons R&D, or into the admin block, he was led up to a hangar, which was swarming with excited soldiers and sober people in dark suits, wired with earpieces. That could only mean one thing. 

The President was waiting under the belly of a hoverjet, speaking animatedly with a cluster of pilots, shaking hands all round, Swanwick and a couple of Secret Service agents beside him. When he noticed Clark, he waved, and Clark headed over, already grinning, probably wearing the same awestruck foolish grin as everyone else. Something about the President seemed to suck away gravity into his direction, like the centre of a star. The hangar was efficiently and briskly cleared, until it was just Secret Service, Swanwick and the President left, then the President murmured something to Swanwick and waved the General aside, striding over to shake Clark’s palm.

“Mister President,” Clark said, and the President motioned him to follow as he ambled slowly around the jet, hands clasped behind his back, austere in a dark navy suit. 

“How’ve you been keeping up, Clark?” 

“I’ve been all right. Great, actually. Uhm. Is this about what I asked the General to do? About Perry White?”

“Hold up there,” the President raised his eyebrows. “What about Perry?” 

“Kent here got tired of being published all the time,” Swanwick supplied from the President’s shoulder. 

“Un _deservedly_ published,” Clark corrected. 

“I’ll mention something to Perry,” the President seemed amused for a moment before he sobered up again. “Kent, remember what I said, the last time you asked me about Syria?” 

“You said you were going to think about it.” 

“And I did. It seems a miracle happened early this morning on the crossing. Several boatloads abruptly appeared on the shore? I fielded some interesting calls from several important people just an hour ago.” 

“Couldn’t say, sir.”

“You are a great many things, son,” the President said wryly, “But you’re a bad liar, thank God.” 

Despite himself, Clark bristled. “What was I supposed to do, let them die?” 

“Kent,” Swanwick suggested mildly, “The next time you want to lie to the President, maybe you should try a longer period of plausible deniability.” 

“Don’t start on him, Jon. I like people who can’t help but tell me the truth. It’s refreshing. So. What do you have to say for yourself?” The President asked Clark, though he smiled as he said it. 

“Would you rather they drowned?” 

“Of course not. And thankfully, you’re not mentioned in most of the major news organisations, though I’m sure people will put two and two together. The refugee situation is… complicated, particularly for our close allies in the EU. America settles about seventy thousand refugees yearly-“

“And we’ve only resettled about a couple of thousand from the Syrian crisis,” Clark shot back. “Out of _millions_.”

“I _did_ propose allowing ten thousand to come in last year. But Congress has to fund it, and unfortunately, fifty three percent of Americans don’t want to accept Syrian refugees, even though we have some of the strictest resettlement restrictions in the world. So. There we stand. It’s not a problem with any easy solutions. Particularly in an already volatile election year.”

“And especially after US interests helped destabilise the region?” 

“It _could_ stabilise again,” Swanwick said pointedly. “With help from _certain_ people.” 

“All right, General,” the President said wearily, “I’ve heard this before, and I’m not interested in hearing it again. May I have a quick word with Clark here?” 

Swanwick grimaced, clearly annoyed at being so briskly dismissed. “Yes sir,” he said, saluting, and marched off stiff-legged to the other side of the hangar. 

“He thought you were being optimistic about me,” Clark said softly, once Swanwick seemed to be out of earshot. 

“I gave him - and the others - a reason why I wanted you to stay out of the armed forces, sure. But there’s another reason,” the President looked Clark squarely in the eye. “I don’t want you to get used to killing.” 

“Mister President-“

“War changes people. Whether they’re in the thick of it, like what Swanwick would want for you… or on the outskirts of it, swallowed up in the immensity of all that suffering. It’s easy to give in to the politics of despair when you’re surrounded by it. To hate, instead of feeling compassion. The poem at the foot of the Statue of Liberty names her the Mother of Exiles: ‘ _Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free_.’ So I do know how deeply we as a people fail that promise every day. But I’m not just the President of _liberal_ America.”

“Don’t tell that to Fox News,” Clark said weakly, feeling knocked off balance all over again. 

“It’s not about refusing to save people. Do what you have to, on that front. It’s about trying to keep you separate from the very worst of the rest of us, of all that is ugliest in humanity. I’m not afraid to tell you that you scare me, son. Not because of who you are now: your mum did a great job bringing you up right, as far as I’m concerned. But I’m scared of who you might _become_ , if it all goes wrong, somehow. And most of all, I’m scared of what the rest of us might do to _get_ you there.”

IV.

Dinner was at some forgettable Japanese place that Clark had picked, and Bruce was relieved when it was finally over. He’d spent it distracted: there had been a television screen in the bar, set on silent behind the sushi counter, with CNN covering the surge of False God protests after Trump’s domination of Super Tuesday. Bruce had never been particularly interested in American politics before, save where it concerned Gotham City, and getting up to speed with the whole sorry business had been an uncomfortable exercise in disgusted bewilderment. It was hard to believe that there was still nearly a whole _year_ until the actual general election.

“I think I’m starting to bore you,” Clark said tentatively, when they were in the car.

“I’ve had a long day,” Bruce disagreed, and ran fingers up the inseam of Clark’s trousers, watching him flush and stutter. Somehow, back in the apartment, instead of falling into bed, they ended up in the garden, on the grass, Clark laughing in disbelief as he ran his fingers through springy turf.

“I didn’t think that the grass was real.” 

“Why would I have fake grass in my apartment?” Bruce asked, frowning, bent over Clark, straddling his hips. This close, Clark was immensely warm, and felt unyieldingly solid. Bruce braced his palms over Clark’s shoulders, kneading. 

“You said you don’t even use this place much. So someone comes by every so often to just water and mow the grass?”

“The caretaker does, yes. I still don’t see what your point is,” Bruce said, pretending to be peeved as Clark chuckled and wrestled them onto their flanks. 

The grass prickled, and would probably stain Bruce’s tailored shirt, his suit dumped somewhere near the stairs, Clark’s on the wooden balcony landing. Clark kissed him on the nose, a playful peck that brushed down to Bruce’s mouth when Bruce swatted at his chin, and it occurred to Bruce with unsteady force that he had never done this before with anyone, lain on the grass, joking and kissing. Love had always been an untenable balancing game between the lies in his life and the intimacy that such constant mendacity inevitably corrupted. This game with Clark seemed to be both and neither. 

“Hey,” Clark said softly. “Thanks for before.” 

“Dinner? If you like Japanese food, there’s better. Even in Metropolis.” 

“No, I meant. When I called you the other day.” 

“Clark. Are you in trouble? Because if you are, I _can_ help you,” Bruce said, carefully straight-faced. “No strings attached, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” 

“No, not really. I just needed to talk to someone else for a while. Sometimes it feels like everyone else in my life just wants to be ‘supportive’. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing after all.” 

“Hah,” Bruce smiled thinly. So he had thought. “You mean, like yes-men? Hell, I know about that. And you’re right. It’s good to have a safety net, sure. People who will love you no matter what happens. But if you live inside your own world, with people who’d only tell you what you want to hear, whether it’s because they love you, or because they’re _afraid_ of you, that’s unhealthy for anyone.” 

As Bruce had expected, Clark grimaced faintly at the word ‘afraid’. “I know. I see that now. How’d you handle it?” 

“The man who effectively brought me up after what happened to my parents is utterly unafraid of telling me off whenever he thinks I’m being a fool,” Bruce said wryly. “And besides him… you won’t have met my current CEO, but she’s fierce as fierce can be. There are others. It’s all a matter of finding someone who isn’t afraid of hurting your feelings - or of what you can do.” 

“And are you?” Clark asked soberly. “Afraid of anything?”

Bruce shrugged. “No.” 

“Not even the Superman? Your press conferences, the Remembrance statements… aren’t you worried at all?” 

“Ah,” Bruce grinned. “That’s what you’ve been working towards? No, I’m not afraid of the Superman. What’s the worst he can do to me, kill me? I’ve come close enough to death before that dying doesn’t scare me any longer.”

“I see.” Clark rolled onto his back, looking up pensively at the stars, and Bruce pretended to follow his stare. 

“Do you think there’re others out there?” Bruce asked, allowing Clark to tug him closer. “Civilisations. Life.”

“Seems likely.” Clark said softly. “I read that book you recommended. The Dark Forest. And the book before it.”

“Really? That’s quick. The Three Body Problem was tough going.”

“So much of the second book is about the futility of compromise,” Clark said, as though Bruce hadn’t spoken. “About society turning upon itself, especially upon its appointed saviours.”

“ _And_ about people committed to helping an alien race even though it’s bent on humanity’s destruction,” Bruce added dryly, unable to help himself. “I found that interesting.” 

“Rather than depressing?” 

“Oh, certainly. There’s always going to be people who want to follow whoever’s strongest, loudest, biggest. Maybe that’s the real problem that Remembrance faces. In a year where a sizeable chunk of the electorate is voting for one breed of bigot or another, maybe I’m asking them a moral question that’s too nuanced for our polarised climate.” 

“That’s a surprisingly patronising way to think about things,” Clark said pointedly, and despite himself, Bruce chuckled. 

“I haven’t appointed _you_ to my naysayer cabinet yet, Clark. But fine. Yes I know, it’s patronising. I suppose I’ve been in bit of a mood. Some False God protesters set fire to bits of Gotham, did you see? The Commissioner called me personally to chew my ear off about it. Her father’s face was the first kindly face I saw when I lost my parents, and I’ve never forgotten that. I’ve known her since she was a little girl. Losing that friendship is something I regret.”

“ _You_ didn’t tell False God to set fire to that memorabilia shop,” Clark disagreed. “Just because you asked a question and people reacted badly doesn’t make it your fault. Besides, everywhere else, False God hasn’t done anything more than commit minor vandalism.” 

“So far,” Bruce allowed grimly, and forced a smile. “It’s been a strange year so far, and not just with the public. Look at the government. Two people in San Bernardino buy four guns legally which they use to murder fourteen people and wound several others. A couple of semiautomatics based on AR-15s, and two 9mm pistols. The rifles were later altered, sure. But the way the government’s approaching the matter, going hard after Apple rather than at gun control, you’d think that the two of them used their iPhones to beat their victims to death.” 

“I’ve been told that it’s a volatile year in politics,” Clark said, though he nodded.

“So it is. But back to alien life.” Bruce angled up until he was back on top, if lying flush, and Clark simply took his full weight as though he didn’t even notice. Careless. “I have a theory. Maybe Superman doesn’t actually look human. Not originally. Maybe the real Kryptonian form is some sort of mimic. A sentient biofluid capable of changing its form and density-“ 

Clark grinned, amused. “So what, it turned into a human baby because a couple of people found it? But it could've been a dog or a cat or something otherwise? Gosh. That’s interesting. There’s another possibility, though.”

“And what’s that?” 

“Intelligent design?” Clark suggested innocently, and laughed when Bruce rolled his eyes, hauling himself up to stifle that joy, kiss it away. He didn’t want to hear it. Bruce pressed a knee pointedly between Clark’s legs, tugging Clark’s shirt out of his trousers, and Clark’s hands froze briefly over Bruce’s hips before gently circling his wrists, effectively locking his hands in place even when Bruce tried to tug them free. 

Annoyed, Bruce glanced up. “Now what?” 

“Uhm,” Clark swallowed. “D’you mind if we… Maybe we could, uh. Y’know. Take things slow?” 

“Are you serious?” Bruce said, incredulous. “Just in case you’ve forgotten, we’re both no longer in high school. And we’ve _already_ had sex. Twice.” 

Clark grimaced. “Yes, I know, but-“

“If you didn’t want to fuck,” Bruce pointed out deliberately, “You could’ve mentioned it before we got into the car.” 

As though to demonstrate Bruce’s point, Clark’s cock twitched against his thigh, and Clark squirmed away, flushing again. “I do want to, uh. But. I really like you, so-“

Bruce exhaled, irritated, cutting him off as he rolled off and sat up. “This is exactly the sort of complication that I prefer to avoid.” 

“Wait, wait,” Clark said quickly, sitting up and pressing closer, preventing Bruce from getting to his feet with a hand splayed lightly over his knee. “I get that. And I really don’t want to waste your time or anything, I know you’re busy, so. I won’t take up any more time than you can give, and if you need me to sign something or whatever so you can trust me I-“ 

“Hold up,” Bruce frowned. “Sign? What are you talking about?”

Clark smiled sheepishly. “I uh, might have tried look for help on Google.”

“What? There’re articles on the internet about ‘How to Date Bruce Wayne?’” Bruce wouldn’t be too surprised, actually. 

“No! Uh, I mean. How to date billionaires. But most of the articles were kinda weird and creepy and money related so it wasn’t like I found anything and…” Clark trailed off when Bruce started to laugh, and when it went on, with Bruce unsuccessfully trying to calm down, Clark eventually began to grin, broadly, ducking his head. “Okay. Maybe I’m pretty bad at this.” 

“Maybe.”

“And I know this is only the third time we’ve ever met.” 

“So it is.” 

“And I talked to some people - not about you or billionaires, just in general - and they told me that nowadays in Metropolis, people usually uh, do it first, and then maybe later get together, not the other way round like it is in the movies.” 

“I don’t want to know what era of ‘the movies’ you’re watching,” Bruce said dryly, “But maybe you’d like to fast forward to the present.” 

“The thing is,” Clark said earnestly. “I keep thinking that this is all a fluke. Meeting you in the first place, getting to know you… hell, sometimes when I’m scrolling through my contacts to reach an informant and I pass your name, I feel like everything isn’t real. Like I’m going to wake up. And I think it really _is_ a fluke. How are you even single? You’re funny, wise, smart and really, uh, really good-lookin’, and-“

 _Funny?_ “And very rich?” Bruce supplied dryly. 

“That’s not important to me. I guess I just wanted to maybe bring it up, before you got bored of just having dinner and… stuff… after, and. There’s things about me you don’t know, and all that. But.” Clark sighed, and looked sheepish again. “This was a bad idea, wasn’t it.”

The smart thing to do would be to laugh it off. Make a joke, lean over and kiss Clark, and maybe blow him in the garden, just to make a point. Sync things back to his Plan. But Bruce wavered instead, abruptly unsure when put on the spot. Tam was right after all. Once was bad enough, but the moment he met Clark again - and again - Bruce should’ve known that it would all start unravelling. He’d have to take some time to reassess.

“There will be some ground rules,” Bruce said finally, and as Clark smiled with painfully visceral relief and leaned over, Bruce clapped a palm over his mouth. “Most importantly? This has to be just between us. I don’t like being splashed all over the tabloids unless it serves some sort of purpose.” 

“Suits me fine,” Clark whispered, and pushed Bruce back down onto the grass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://time.com/4126371/these-5-facts-explain-americas-shameful-reaction-to-syrian-refugees/  
> https://medium.com/@jamesallworth/the-u-s-has-gone-f-ing-mad-52e525f76447#.v4j2c3ryl  
> https://theintercept.com/2016/03/03/husband-whose-wife-was-shot-in-san-bernardino-calls-for-stronger-gun-laws-not-weaker-privacy-protections/  
> http://www.wsj.com/articles/san-bernardino-guns-originally-bought-legally-later-modified-1449254384
> 
> There are indeed articles up when you google How to Date a Billionaire, lol.


	6. Chapter 6

iii.

Finding Superman was turning out to be difficult. Diana had leant on the remnants of Steve’s network to no result, and now spent her time in between visiting Steve and work watching video footage. Not just The Fight, but of the rescue efforts as well. Conspiracy theorists seemed mostly skewed towards believing that Superman lived either in Area 51 or on one of the military bases, venturing out only when there was a disaster ongoing, and online opinion seemed ambivalent. Major American news networks had already lost interest in Remembrance, given the ongoing fiasco of the Republican primary.

“Suits us fine,” Tam said, when Diana caught up with her for lunch in Gotham. They sat at a nice little seafood cafe, overlooking the West River, having lobster sliders. Tam was yawning, having just come off a flight from Houston, bundled up against the chilly morning in gray wool and bright yellow tailored trousers. 

“Didn’t Bruce say something about wanting to keep the conversation going?” Bruce had given Diana a brief run down of Remembrance to date, when he had come back from a futile attempt to locate Lucius on the R&D site, though he had seemed distracted. Disappointed, perhaps. Diana could understand the pain of sundering away from friends: she had done it with her entire _culture_.

“Don’t mind Bruce. He’s far more pragmatic than he seems.” 

“Pity about him and your father,” Diana ventured. 

“Dad? He’ll relent sooner or later. Bruce and Alfred - that’s the butler - have been part of our lives since forever. They’re family. And families might bicker now and then but they’ll come together when it counts.” 

“Your father’s very worried about Remembrance.” 

Tam sniffed. “Believe me, I know. He’s _only_ been nagging us about it since we first brought it up. God knows why _I_ thought he would be supportive. Shows you how much I know.”

Diana finished her last slider and took a sip of her latte. Coffee was one thing that she was going to miss from the outside world. “Why wouldn’t he be concerned? You’re squaring off against a totally unknown entity. One with superpowers, who’s most likely backed by your own government.”

“My name’s not anywhere near Remembrance. Bruce insisted. I’m not even listed as one of the donors. Not because he thinks I can’t handle it, or because of my daughter, but just in case Remembrance does start to disappear, or whatever the fallout might be, then it’d fall to me to regroup. Everyone on that donor list knows the risks.”

“So far there’s been no response from Superman. Or his handlers.” 

“That’s the smart move. If they held a press conference or anything, whatever he says is going to be torn apart to suit a political agenda. My guess is the current Administration wants to focus on the SCOTUS fight, among other political fronts, and doesn’t want to deal with the distraction of an all out media flood about their pet alien.” Tam pursed her lips in distaste. She had finished one shot of espresso and was on her second, frowning across the West River, threaded with the wakes of little ships. 

“So what’s next for Remembrance?” 

“We’ve run a few ads, but tv ads clearly aren’t working that well this year. Bruce is going through the candidates. Sanders is out. I like him, but he’d see us as the enemy. ‘Billionaire class’, eh? And besides, the whole problem of Superman doesn’t really fit into any of his favorite topics. Nothing to do with money in politics or inequality. Maybe Clinton. Bruce’s donated to the Clintons before, and he’s been in touch with Bill.” 

“Aren’t the False God protesters Republican?” 

“Outside of Metropolis, maybe. But in Metropolis, everyone either lost someone at Ground Zero, or they know someone who did. Remembrance has been getting a lot of mail. A lot of it is hate mail, sure. Superman has his fans, some well-deserved: he’s been a visible American symbol in all the major natural disasters of the last three years. But we get a lot from the other side, too. People who are frustrated that Ground Zero is fading from the public consciousness. Over a decade on, and 9-11 is still a scar on the American psyche, a key topic in public discourse. Why is Ground Zero, which had nearly twice the casualties, so easily forgotten?” 

“So are many natural disasters.” 

“There was nothing natural about it,” Tam said grimly. 

“Wars, then. For a lot of your people, life is challenging. Superman represents a failsafe, in some ways. Hope. According to the last CNN poll, he’s more popular than your President. Though, not more popular than the First Lady.” 

“I don’t think I want to live in a world where anyone can be more popular than Michelle,” Tam grinned, for a moment fiercely proud. 

“Why did Remembrance wait so many years to start? Waiting for the primaries?” 

“That’s Bruce for you. We _were_ waiting for peak primary season, in a way. Any other year, Wayne Enterprises drumming up a protest SuperPAC would have stayed on the airwaves for _weeks_. This year…” Tam shrugged. “Everything goes, this year. Real life has turned into reality tv.” 

“What do you mean, ‘in a way’?”

“Bruce always has plans within his plans,” Tam dropped her voice, picking at the handle of her cup. “Remembrance is the top level. Public outreach, private lobbying, PR. On the next, if the people behind Remembrance start to disappear, I’ll take over. Bruce’s assets are already all locked up just in case, into a managed trust fund, made for this purpose. But anything beneath that,” Tam smiled thinly, “He’ll keep it to himself.”

“Are you worried?”

“Not for me, no. I trust Bruce with my life - hell, I’d trust him with my _daughter’s_ life. Though,” Tam added, amused, “Not with much more than that. He’d take a bullet for her, but he’s completely hopeless with children. Thankfully he’s never tried to adopt. God only knows what he’d have let them do: he wouldn’t be the most responsible of parents.”

“Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”

“Oh yeah,” Tam rolled her eyes. “When Tina was three and we were visiting the manor, Bruce asked her what she wanted for her birthday.”

“Uh oh.”

“The pony was delivered to our house the next day. At that time we lived in a terrace house in Gotham _city_ , mind you.” 

Diana hid a smile by taking another sip of her coffee. “I see.” 

“Good thing she didn’t ask for something actually difficult, like Norway,” Tam said dryly. “Still, if you drove to the farm to see Father, you probably saw all her other presents from over the years in the paddock. Bruce has no real sense of perspective. That’s what concerns me about his plans.” 

“You think he’s definitely up to something?”

“I think it’d be very strange if he wasn’t. I’m going to introduce you to Alfred, when Bruce jets off tomorrow to Japan to tour our new R&D facility there.”

Diana raised her eyebrows. “I’m doing this for you, Tam. Bruce wasn’t part of the deal.” 

Tam scowled. “Either you help both of us or you go home, and we don’t talk ever again. D’you think I’m in any way comfortable sitting back while any friend of mine sticks their neck out on my behalf? That aside. Like I said, Bruce has no sense of perspective, and he’ll never admit it if he gets in over his head and needs help. Whatever he’s up to, I just _know_ it’s going to blow up in his face.”

4.0.

“You’re in a good mood,” Lois suggested, as they sat in the park at lunch with their bagels.

“Is it that obvious?” 

“Let me guess. You managed to grovel enough for whoever it was to forgive you.” 

“I think I was forgiven out of sheer pity. It was that bad,” Clark admitted. He had no problem at all talking to people like Perry, Swanwick, MIT scientists or even the President, but somehow, in front of Bruce Wayne, Clark was a complete mess at the best of times. 

“Well, whatever works.” Lois sipped her coffee, stretching her legs under the warm Metropolis sun. “At least you’re forgiven.” 

“Temporarily.” Bruce might have laughed, but Clark didn’t doubt that he was just as prickly as ever. Another mistake and forgiveness would probably be harder to earn. “You were right, by the way. I think nobody does dating and movies and things before uh, the rest now. It’s all one.” His mum wouldn’t approve.

“Tried to spring the ‘let’s take it slow’ thing on her, did you?” Lois’ eyes gleamed with amusement. “I bet that went down as well as a ton of rocks. You’re living in _Metropolis_ , not in the middle of small town Kansas. Not that I know what it’s like in small town Kansas, thank God, but no Metropolis girl’s going to have time for holding hands and slow walks down a beach.”

“I guess,” Clark said diffidently. “I don’t think a movie’s on the cards, even. I don’t really know what to do other than dinner. And I tried researching.”

“E-stalking the lucky girl, are you?”

“Why do you always make that sound worse than it is?” 

“Clark,” Lois said dryly, “When Steve once told you that Google was the answer to all your problems, I don’t think he meant it so literally.” 

“But that’s not even the main problem,” Clark added, listening carefully for a moment. No one close by: the park was nicely secluded at this hour. “I haven’t told. About who I am.” 

“I don’t see how that’s so hard,” Lois drawled. “Take your glasses off and go, ‘Hi sweetie, remember that guy you sometimes see on CNN in a funny cloak and blue tights? Turns out, I wasn’t in Tunisia just to write an article-‘“

“Not funny, Lois,” Clark groaned, hanging his head and rubbing the heels of his palms against his temple, the bagel left uneaten beside him. “It’s going to be a disaster and I can’t even help it. I’ve thought of a hundred ways of coming clean and none of them end well.” 

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Lois finished her bagel and balled up the paper wrap. “I mean. Maybe you’re not as popular a public figure as Michelle Obama, but you’re still on par with the good guys. And after you do that StarTalk appearance with Neil deGrasse Tyson next week? That’s just going to get better. You want good press, just do the rest of the rounds. Fallon, Colbert, the works.”

“I don’t think that’s going to help.”

“Either way, you’re going to have to break it to her early. The longer you wait, the worse it’s going to get,” Lois predicted. “I know you’re really invested in this secret identity business. But you’re never going to get away with it forever, not with someone close to you. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like this person _also_ has a hundred and fifty million dollars lying around that they could cash in on destroying you.” 

Clark had been sipping his coffee, and he ended up coughing it up. Flushing, he mopped up the spill from his knee and the bench. “I uh. Yeah. I guess so. That’s right.”

“… Wow,” Lois said, very slowly. “Clark. Don’t tell me.”

“Uh what?” 

“I _knew_ that feature article was a little funny,” Lois narrowed her eyes. “You dumping the recording on Jimmy to do the scoop, I mean, sure, I could understand that. I would’ve been feeling pretty hurt after that fundraiser too, if I were you. But getting access to _Bruce Wayne_? That really gushy article that you wrote? It felt weird. I just wasn't sure why.”

“I really… don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a hella bad liar, Smallville. Hey, chill. Don’t panic. I’m not going to blab.” Lois narrowed her eyes. “Seriously, Clark? _Seriously_? Bruce Wayne? What, did you think life’s been too easy for you lately or something?”

“He’s a great man,” Clark said stiffly, “Gotham wouldn’t be one of the safest cities in America right now if not for him.” 

“Unless you happen to be mentally ill _and/or_ a criminal, in which case, you’re fucked,” Lois pointed out flatly, never one to soften her tone in the face of anything that she found morally wanting. “What the hell. He’s trying to _destroy_ you.” 

“No he’s not,” Clark disagreed. “You saw the article. That’s his exact words. He’s interested in _accountability_.”

Lois sighed. “Okay. So maybe you get sued for all you’re worth. Which isn’t much, I’ve been to your apartment, I’m sure all your avocado plants would find nice new homes in Wayne Manor or something. But then what? Is that going to bring everyone back? Or… you go to jail, somehow. Voluntarily. Then what? What happens when another earthquake happens? Clark. What _do_ you feel about what happened at Ground Zero?”

“I feel terrible about it-“

“There you go.”

“ _But_ ,” Clark added firmly. “You know what? At that time? What I felt the worst about wasn’t that I’d fought in Metropolis. Or that all the towers had collapsed because of it. I felt terrible about having to kill the last remaining member of my species. Never mind that he’d just tried to cause an extinction level event. Never mind that he was threatening to kill some innocent people in front of me. What hurt me the most - what I regretted the most for days after that - was what I did to Zod. Not the people who died because I tried to stop him.”

“Clark-“

“That’s why I hate going near ‘Hero Park’,” Clark said grimly. “That giant statue makes me feel like a fraud. That day was the furthest I ever got from being _human_ , and they made a memorial about it. And you know what? All this time, whenever I brought it up, with you, or with Mum, or even once with Perry? You guys just told me it was all right. Wasn’t my fault. Couldn’t have been helped. I actually started to believe it.”

“That’s because it’s true.” 

“No it’s not,” Clark said softly. “Zod came into the fight at a disadvantage. I’ve been living on Earth for a long time. I’ve gotten used to the air. Flying. The strength that comes from the yellow sun. Him? He was struggling at the start, the air itself was poisoning him. I could’ve killed him if I wanted to, earlier on, while he was trying to adjust. But I didn’t. I just wanted him to stop fighting. That was all I was thinking about. Not what we were damaging, or even what would happen if we just kept duking it out in the city. I just wanted to find a way to avoid _killing him._ ” 

“Killing isn’t in you,” Lois said gently, “I believe that.”

“It is now,” Clark disagreed. “Not just Zod. But _everyone else_. And I never even really thought about what that meant before. Or what I could do to make it better. I finally read up. People who kill by accident - cars, or whatever - are often paralysed by guilt afterwards. For years. Me? Not only did I get away with it, I got away with not even _thinking_ about it.”

“All right, Clark,” Lois patted his wrist. “Maybe you do have to work through this. And I’m here to talk whenever you need me. But do you think that getting close to Bruce Wayne is really going to help? What do you think will happen when he finds out? This isn’t being fair to anyone, is it?” 

“I know,” Clark said glumly. “Since I was a kid I used to wish I was like everyone else. The kids in school could all tell there was something different about me, and they let me know it. After that, when I lost my dad and decided to see the world, I never stayed at one place for too long. I always inevitably slipped up. But this time? I’ve never wished so hard to be _normal_ before.” 

“Even if you were,” Lois said uncomfortably. “Wayne’s track record with relationships isn’t exactly the best.” 

“I saw. It’s sad what happened to Rachel Dawes.” 

“I didn’t mean her. I meant the string of supermodels and actresses whom he’s been seeing on and off again all this time. The thing is. Even if you _weren’t_ who you were? I’d have thought that you were heading straight for heartbreak. But right now? I don’t think there are even _words_ for the kind of mess you’re getting yourself into.” 

Clark sighed. “I know. You’re right. It’s not fair to anyone.”

“He is kinda hot, I see why you went there,” Lois said generously, if wanly. “In a silver fox way.”

“Lois!” 

Later in the Farm, as Clark was trawling through the main news sites halfheartedly, he resolved to try and talk to Bruce again. Maybe. Or perhaps it was better to step away from it all for a while? Clark was a stringer, he could go on assignment somewhere for a month, and maybe at the end of it Bruce would’ve moved on, like Lois predicted. Just _considering_ that _hurt_ , however, like a gnawing hollow. The deception wasn’t fair to Bruce. But it seemed completely unfair as well to _Clark_ that the first person he’d ever wanted this badly was someone who would hate him if the truth came out. 

Groaning, Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d call it an early day and go home, he decided. Work on the farm for a while-

His phone jumped briefly on the table from a text, and Clark turned it face up.

It was Bruce. _Hey. Busy?_

Clark nearly crushed his phone swiping it closer, his heart already in his mouth. _I’m at work_ , he replied. 

_You and I both know that you’re freelance. Why the hell are you even sitting in an office?_

_Cafes in Metropolis get shirty if you sit in there and use their wifi._ Clark couldn’t help it. He was grinning already. Lois’ suggestion was going to be doomed from the start. There was a pause, then the phone started to shake from a phone call, and Clark crabbed quickly away to the staff kitchen, hoping nobody noticed. 

“Cafes are boring,” Bruce said briskly, as Clark picked up. “Can you get to Gotham International by eleven? Don’t bother with the Departure terminal, just head to the hangars, tell security you’re with me and they’d point you to the Wayne Enterprises section.” 

“The airport? Why?” 

“I have to fly to Japan for a thing. You might as well come along.” 

“What? Why me?”

Bruce laughed, and his voice turned smoky, Gods. “Ever heard of the mile-high club?” 

Clark blushed hotly. “Tonight? That’s… I-“ 

“Yes-no answer, Clark. I won’t be mad if you’re busy. Or if you think this is still ‘going too fast’,” Bruce sounded amused, as though he knew what Clark was going to say next, and Clark closed his eyes, swallowing his sigh, chewing on his lower lip. The words were on the tip of his tongue. _Sorry Bruce, I really am busy right now. I can’t just drop everything to go to Japan._ “Clark?” 

“I um, sure. I’ll be there.” 

“Good. See you then.” Bruce hung up, and Clark groaned, leaning briefly against the company fridge. He was in so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maps of Gotham and Metropolis: http://i.imgur.com/URxCn4G.png thanks to Turkish Airlines 
> 
> Being a far left treehugger pacifist hippie, I naturally like Bernie… to be fair though, at this point I don’t really care whether it’s Bernie or Hills at the end, just not the other guys. The rest of us in the world need someone who believes in climate change in the Oval Office, etc. That being said, can you imagine what a Bernie speech about Superman would be like? XD 
> 
> http://comicbuzz.com/2013/03/broken-birds-of-a-feather-the-morality-of-batman-robin/ - Also: why the use of underage Robins have always been vaguely concerning to me


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING** : This chapter changes the rating of the fic to E.

V.

Bruce was late, because Tam seemed insistent on regurgitating every detail of his itinerary to him over the phone, and he was still fending her off as he got out of the Tesla in the private hangar. “… I’m perfectly aware,” he growled, as he spotted Clark hanging around nervously by the airstairs to the jet with a customs officer and security, a gray duffel bag over his shoulder. Bruce held up one finger, and Clark nodded.

“Honestly, Tam. Yes, I’ve been to Tokyo before. I’ve met Matsuhida before. No, I’m not going to disappear and reappear months later in Nepal, or whatever you’re thinking. Have fun holding down the fort… yes, it’s a meet and greet, I know. Good _bye_.” He hung up pointedly, and shoved his phone into his coat pockets, and ducked his head back into the car. “Alfred, the new friend that Lucius handballed over to Tam and myself… hurry that background check along, will you?” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

“Keep me updated.” 

“Enjoy your trip, Master Bruce.” 

The car sped off, and Bruce stalked over to the airstairs, smiling at customs. “Holly, nice to see you again.” 

“Busy year for you and Miz Fox,” nodded the officer, with a smile of her own. “You’re both good to go, Mister Wayne. Nice to meet you, Mister Kent.” 

“This isn’t exactly keeping things under wraps, is it?” asked Clark, as they got into the plane and strapped down in the lush passenger seating. Rosewood paneling lined the seats under the elegant curvature of the blue-lit domed ceiling, and each of the five sets of seats fit only against the left hull of the plane, facing each other over sleek curved wood tables, embossed with the Wayne Enterprises logo. 

“Holly? Holly’s good. She runs private clearance for Gotham’s jetsetters, never a word to the press. Been to Japan before?”

“Nope. Always did want to go, but, you uh, really didn’t need to ask me along.” 

“If you like Japanese food, you need to have the authentic version,” Bruce said dismissively, and Clark smiled, so goddamned boyishly earnest.

“Is _that_ it?” 

“Think of it as expanding your horizons, farmboy.” 

Clark blinked. “You know where I grew up?”

“I know you grew up in Kansas. Smallville, was it called? Bit of an apt name. Relax. I always run a background check on people I’m getting to know. It isn’t personal.” 

“And we’re all good?” Clark asked, still staring. 

“Unless there’s any undisclosed bankruptcies or felonies you’d like to tell me about that my people missed, sure.”

“Nope. I uhm. Bruce. I guess we really don’t know that much about each other. Other than what’s on the record or online.” 

“That’s the fun of it,” Bruce carefully hid his curiosity, leaning back into his seat as the engines of the plane started up in a low hum all around them. “If people knew everything about the other person before taking a risk on them, relationships would be boring.” 

That got a nervous laugh. So _that_ was it. Clark was starting to feel guilty - about his ‘deception’, at any rate. “Sometimes it isn’t good for something to be _too_ exciting either.” 

“Everyone’s got skeletons in their closets. The longer you live, the more you get. But I’m going to bet that there’s nothing in your life that’s really that much of a shocker,” Bruce drawled. “You’re what, thirty?” At Clark’s slow nod, Bruce added, “Does it involve farm animals?”

“What? No!” 

“That’s my best guess, already out of the window.” Bruce smirked. “Come on then, shock me. What’s the worst that you could’ve done growing up in a place that’s _actually_ called ‘Smallville’?” 

Thankfully, instead of blurting it all out and changing the game, Clark startled to laugh instead, all helpless little chuckles. “You’re making me laugh at my own hometown,” he accused, in between gasps. “You’re an evil man.” 

“You haven’t seen anything yet, farmboy.” 

The plane started to taxi out of the hangar, and Clark peered out of the port window, enthralled. It was probably his first time on a jet. Bruce wondered briefly what it was like to be able to just fly on a whim, without being encased within a plane or under a glider, to soar up, up and away and chase the clouds, and for a moment he envied Clark his alien nature. 

“Haven’t been on a private jet?” Bruce inquired. It wasn’t yet the time for verbal traps, easy as it would’ve been to set this one up. 

“Go on, show off,” Clark smiled. 

“What’s the point of owning one of the world’s most successful companies if you can’t show off now and then?” Bruce agreed, with a sharp smile of his own. 

“I kinda thought private jets would be smaller,” Clark admitted. “Like in the movies.”

“You mean those tiny little Gulfstreams? What’s the point, I hate having to stop to refuel. This is a Dreamliner. Nice and fuel-efficient.”

“I can’t imagine living life like that.”

“Just think of it as normal life, but magnified to a ludicrous degree. You people buy cars, we buy planes. If you feel like gambling, you go to a casino and maybe play a few rounds of poker, or whatever. We put money on presidential candidates.” 

“You’ve bet money on candidates in the past?” 

“All sides,” Bruce conceded. “Everyone does it. What do they call racing, the sport of kings? This is the real deal.”

“Your family’s never actively endorsed a candidate before.”

“It never used to really matter that much,” Bruce pointed out. “But it’s a brave new world, with Citizens United. Personally, I think our government’s a mess. But we can’t really help it. The United State’s not just one of the world’s top five most populous countries, it’s also on the list of the biggest countries. The more people you have, the bigger the land mass, the harder it is to keep order.” 

“You think the states should all secede?” 

“God no, that’d be a global economic catastrophe. But it’s about time that we recognised the problems in our version of democracy. It’s broken at the top level, with increasingly polarised and gridlocked government, and at the engagement level, with voter disenfranchisement. And most people don’t vote. Whether it’s because they can’t be bothered, or can’t take leave, or can’t get a relevant ID…” Bruce shrugged. “That might be the problem. If the only people who engage in the process are those that are the most passionate about it, maybe that’s why both sides are pulling to ideological extremes.” 

“So what sort of government would you prefer?” 

“I like things that work. But we’re in a unique situation. Big country, lots of people.”

“Canada manages it.” 

“Canada’s big, but it doesn’t have the population size.” The plane was accelerating, the flat landscape of Gotham International speeding past around them, Bruce thrust against the straps of his seat, and then they were in the air, rushing towards the clouds. Clark peered through the window, clearly fascinated. This was probably the slowest that he’d gone flying, with the very worst view, but they were chasing the sunset, the sky grading down into orange and gold. 

“There’s Metropolis,” Clark pointed beyond the harbour, at the distant sprawl of land, teethed with skyscrapers. 

Bruce pretended indifference. “It’s got nothing on Gotham.” 

“Please. Metropolis is nice and sunny. Gotham’s rather grim even in the daytime.”

“ _Grim_?”

“I really don’t know why your city felt the need to have so many stone gargoyles everywhere.”

“Lends the city character,” Bruce scoffed, “Unlike that lego set of a city beyond the West River.” 

“You know what? I’m not going to have this argument,” Clark said, grinning mischievously. “I guess it’s not your fault that Gotham’s like a dramatic frankenstein version of London.” 

“Excuse _me_ ,” Bruce growled, even as the seatbelt indicator by the window pinged off. He was out of his seat and around the table before Clark could react, climbing into Clark’s lap, tipping up Clark’s chin. “I’m going to have to make you take that back.” 

Big hands settled with tentative care on Bruce’s hips. “Try it.”

5.0.

Somewhere in between stumbling out of the passenger seating and down the plane into the cabin that obviously served as Bruce’s bedroom and office, Clark totally forgot about his resolve. It was difficult to think about it with Bruce in his arms and scrabbling at his clothes; they kicked their shoes off by the couch with the widescreen tv and dumped coats on the ground. Bruce’s bedroom aboard the jet was bigger than Clark’s in his Metropolis apartment, and was obviously Japanese-inspired, all minimal, elegant furniture, carpeted with tatami mats. For a moment Clark wondered - wasn’t this going to be hard to clean? - before he realized that _that_ was the point. The whole room was an expression of wealth so casual that Bruce probably didn’t even think about it.

The large bed was set low against the wall, soft gray quilts crinkling under Clark’s palms as he was dragged down after Bruce on top of it. Clark had lost his belt, and Bruce was briskly pulling down his trousers and boxers, smirking. “Get your shirt off, Clark, or something’s going to rip.” 

“Doesn’t seem fair, you still have all your clothes on,” Clark pointed out, he obeyed, fumbling at buttons, even as Bruce growled and toed the rest of Clark’s clothes off the bed. Clark gasped as Bruce spat into a palm and grasped his cock, confident and sure, and it felt dizzyingly wrong, to be tangled over Bruce like this, wearing a false face. He got hard anyway, as Bruce tugged, a tight fist of elegant fingers from the root to the tip. 

“Bruce,” Clark whispered urgently. “I don’t know if we should-“

“Give me a break,” Bruce interrupted, with a scowl. “We’re in bed, I have my hand on your dick, and you want to what, stop and put our clothes back on and catch a movie?” 

“Well no, but-“

“This would’ve been much more fun if we’d gotten tested beforehand,” Bruce mused, rubbing a thumb up over the wet slit, smirking again as Clark bit out a groan. “Know what I want to do, farmboy? I’m going to have this in my mouth,” he drawled, licking kiss-reddened lips, so gorgeously smug, “Then I’m going to sit on it, and you’re going to fuck me all the way to Tokyo.” 

“That’s-“ Clark coughed out a startled laugh, even as he let Bruce drag him down onto his back on the bed. “Probably not possible.” 

“Shut up, I have a good feeling about your stamina. You can disappoint me later.” Bruce kissed him as he manhandled Clark out of his shirt, with a deliberate hunger at odds with the urgent lust that Clark was used to between them. Here they seemed spoiled by the luxury of time, and Clark’s self-doubt and unease waged a futile war against his greed. Touching Bruce like this was a privilege that Clark didn’t deserve, and the hands he rucked up under Bruce’s shirt were nervous with worship. 

“Mm, no,” Bruce swatted at his hands, curled over Clark and grinning, teeth bared, all deliciously coiled tension. 

“Why? What’s wrong?” 

“Misspent youth doing stupid things in Asia. It’s not pretty.” 

“I’m not in bed with you because you’re pretty.” 

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “That’s good for the ego. Farmboy, you really have to work on your pillow talk.”

“I didn’t mean that! I mean. How bad can it be. There’s nothing you could tell me about _you_ that could make me want to be anywhere else.” 

“Better,” Bruce noted, though his smile was oddly rueful, leaning up to brush a kiss on Clark’s forehead. “But you really don’t know that much about me.” 

Still, he let Clark unbutton his shirt, which felt again like a privilege, another extension of trust that felt like a slap in the face. Clark swallowed and tried not to meet Bruce’s eyes as he got the shirt off, then he stared, astonished. He had expected perhaps a scar or two, something large enough for Bruce to be vain about, but this - he was looking at a map of scars, writ more like a soldier’s brutal history, notched over Bruce’s chest, his ribs, even one dangerously low on his belly. The hands he rubbed carefully up Bruce’s back found more, faint ridged scars rough under his fingertips. 

“What the hell did you do in Asia?” 

“I was young, stupid, and completely convinced that I was invulnerable,” Bruce shrugged. “Good life lesson.” He was slinking down Clark’s body, leaving a trail of ticklish kisses, and on his bicep was an uneven ugly pink scar, toothed at the seams. Clark reached for it, blindly, and as his fingertips pressed against the edges, Bruce stopped, glancing up curiously. “I did say it wasn’t pretty.” 

“Who did that to you?” Clark felt an uncomfortable flush of heat, his stomach knotting, so much like anger. 

“Looks impressive, but this one was really my own stupidity,” Bruce conceded. “I fell off a wall and hit another wall, if you really must know. Some enterprising asshole had glued bits of glass on it.”

“What? You fell off a _wall_?” 

“Told you it was stupid.” Bruce had groped for a wall panel, and was now rolling a condom onto Clark’s cock. 

When Clark met his eyes, Bruce smirked again and lapped a stripe up the latex, chuckling as Clark whimpered and somehow got even harder under his fingers. Instead of getting to work, Bruce nudged Clark’s legs wider apart and tipped up Clark’s hips with a strength that he hadn’t seemed to have, licking and placing sucking kisses on Clark’s balls, letting out ticklish, warm huffing laughs as Clark squirmed and groaned. When he finally took Clark into his mouth Clark had to stifle his wail by stuffing fingers into his own mouth, arching up and scratching at the quilt with a sob.

Watching one of the most powerful, self-assured men Clark had ever met bent between his legs, brows furrowed, red lips stretched tight - it was disorienting, and Clark welcomed it, the sense that the world had just bent out of his control. Bruce might be the one sucking his cock, but it was obvious to Clark whose hands were on the reins. Bruce took his time playing, sucking at the fleshy tip, or drawing back with kitten licks whenever Clark whined and got close, taking him down again to the fist that Bruce’s fingers had made at the root whenever Clark choked out sobs at being nudged off the edge. “Bruce, _please_ ,” Clark resorted to begging, the third time, the fourth. “Please.” 

“Need to come?” Bruce’s voice was a sly rasp, broken by the stretch, but he smiled, wolfish, something savage and pitiless in his eyes. 

“ _Please_.”

“Tough,” Bruce said ruthlessly, fumbling something else out of the wall panel, a small gray tube. He shifted back up to kiss, draped over Clark, impatient with prep. Clark didn’t dare to try and help: his hands were shaking against the sheets, clenched into fists - he couldn’t trust his own self-control right now. It was all he could do to just stay still. Clark was squirming desperately by the time Bruce slicked up Clark’s cock and reared up onto his knees, smirking at whatever he saw on Clark’s face as he sank down. “Don’t you dare come yet,” Bruce added harshly. “Don’t you dare.” 

Somehow, Clark obeyed, winched tight between the rawness of his lust and a blind desperate need, right now, to do whatever Bruce wanted him to do. Clark breathed in tiny wounded whimpers as Bruce took his time settling down, hips twitching against the shreds of his control, trying to get deeper into all that heat. “That’s it,” Bruce purred, as merciless as ever, and Clark let out a hoarse whine, grateful for the praise. “You’re so close, aren’t you? But you’re going to wait, because I want you to.” Clark nodded blindly, biting down gasping sobs. “You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you.”

“Yes,” Clark would have agreed with anything Bruce wanted at this point, and he nosed blindly against the kiss he was rewarded with, open-mouthed and sloppy. Bruce kissed until Clark was pliant again, until the urgency was fading. Disbelief crept into its wake, and Clark traced fingers hesitantly up the elegant curve of Bruce’s spine, his palm running slick over sweat and scars. Bruce rocked against him lazily, rolling his hips, then he abruptly groaned and arched up, grinning, lip caught in his teeth as he fucked himself on Clark’s cock. The bed squeaked and groaned under their weight even as Bruce got quieter and quieter, all soft gasps against Clark’s keening whimpers and pleas. Just seeing Bruce’s powerful thighs braced against him, _riding_ him, was too much all over again. This time, when Clark begged, he could barely understand himself.

“All right,” Bruce conceded, all teeth as he smiled. “But not before-“ He hissed as Clark grabbed his his hips, tugging him down as relief wracked through him in tremors, rolling up against Bruce in grinding jerks. “Fuck,” Bruce laughed. “I wasn’t finished.” 

“Sorry,” Clark gulped, his hands slipping off sweaty skin, then he blinked, abruptly horrified at the red marks he had left on Bruce’s hips, bright hand prints curled over pale skin. “God, did I hurt you?” 

“That’s going to bruise up,” Bruce looked down. “You’ve got quite a grip.” 

“Sorry! I’m so sorry-“ 

“Hey,” Bruce interrupted, amused. “You’re not going to do anything to me that I don’t want. Now. I’m not done yet, farmboy.” 

Clark had caught his breath by the time they switched around, with Bruce on his back and Clark between his thighs. He kissed the reddened marks, ashamed, even though Bruce threaded fingers through his hair and chuckled. “Watch the teeth,” Bruce warned, as Clark got his mouth on Bruce’s cock, and he was going to be bad at this after all, licking nervously at the tip, unsure of what to do, not even daring to squeeze the fingers he had closed over the rest. Thankfully, Bruce didn’t seem to need much more than that, breathing in harsh jags until he finally twitched against Clark’s grip, spilling thickly over his mouth and chin. Clark licked him clean without even thinking about it, the taste bitter on his tongue, musky. Bruce’s hand tightened sharply in his hair, then relaxed, curling down to the back of his neck, thumb pressed over the pulse in his throat. For the first time in forever, Clark felt like it was _okay_ not to have to be in control, and he was so grateful for it that his throat ached, he couldn't breathe, his eyes burned briefly, all unshed tears. 

Thankfully, Bruce didn’t seem to notice, patting his shoulder absently and squirming out to limp to the ensuite bathroom, tossing a towel out at Clark. Cleaned up, condom disposed, Bruce was yawning as they lay in bed, dozing off quickly, tucked under Clark’s chin as he dimmed the lights. The room smelled of sweat and sex despite the ventilation, and with Bruce pressed naked against him, Clark could feel himself getting hard again. He ignored the ache, staring at the hull of the plane, listening to Bruce sleep, all shallow, gentle breaths, and tried to imagine what it would be like to give this up. To ruin it, by telling Bruce the truth. Swallowing hard, Clark squeezed his eyes shut. 

Maybe it was okay to be selfish. Just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes the Asia scar story is a bullshit story (though the wall story is probably true). But Clark doesn’t really know what old scars look like, does he :3


	8. Chapter 8

iv.

When Tam mentioned that Alfred was Bruce’s butler, Diana’s first reaction was that of disbelief. Tam had laughed. “Yes, it’s still a thing. Like Downton Abbey. Alfred doesn’t have the plummy accent, though. Or the white gloves.”

“Does Bruce have… maids and gardeners and… the whole lot?”

“Oddly enough, no. Somehow Alfred takes care of the whole manor by himself, possibly by bending time and space. Though I think recently they’ve been contracting out work on the grounds, because Alfred’s getting on in years. Bruce’s idea, not Alfred’s. Apparently Alfred was passive-aggressive about it for weeks.”

As such, despite making the requisite adjustments in her head, Diana was still taken aback when they were greeted at the front door of Wayne Manor by someone who looked more like a retired veteran than a servant. Alfred Pennyworth stared at them without a hint of servility, silver-haired and lean, cool and poised, straight-backed, feet set slightly apart in a balanced stance. He was wearing a gray vest and a white shirt with a navy tie, with gray trousers to match, and a silver watch chain ran from a pocket, and had Diana not been told who Alfred was, she would have thought him the owner of the manor, not its caretaker. 

“Ms Fox and Ms Trevor, I presume. Good afternoon.” 

Tam pulled a face. “Alfred, you’ve known me since I was a baby. Would it kill you to call me ‘Tam’?”

“Ms Tam Fox,” Alfred amended, the only sign of humour a faint softening to his eyes. “Do come in. I have refreshments prepared in the Green drawing room. Your father rung ahead.” 

“The hell did he find out?” 

Alfred raised his eyebrows, as though with genteel reproach. “I would not know.” 

“Too many legacy staff, that’s the problem,” Tam grumbled, as they followed Alfred into the manor. The house was surprisingly austere. Huge oil paintings, mostly portraits, adorned the walls, as Alfred led them through the vast foyer, ringed by heavy stairs with thick mahogany balustrades. Diana’s kitten heels still sounded loud on the polished marble, and past the foyer they walked out into a wing with large French windows flung open to the sprawling grounds, neatly manicured. There was even a garden maze, of all things.

“I know,” Tam whispered to Diana, misunderstanding her curiosity, thinking it to be awe. “The first time I came to Wayne Manor, I was gawking at everything.”

Diana smiled back at Tam. How would she know? _Diana_ had been born a princess. She had grown up in a _palace_. “No doubt.” 

The drawing room was choked with antiques. A glass-fronted book case dominated part of the wall, sandwiched between paintings and the mounted head of a stag. There was a piano at one end, a baby grand, covered in a white shroud as though in mourning, and Diana’s feet sank into thick carpeting. Alfred waved them cordially towards the antique armchairs and divan by the windows, and swept out of the room, presumably to get refreshments. 

“Seriously,” Tam said, settling down in the armchair, “I tell Alfred that we’re here to see him, and he makes us feel like we’re really here to see Bruce.”

“Are you close?” 

“To Alfred?” Tam snorted. “No one’s close to Alfred but Bruce. Works the other way around, too.”

“Then this trip might be a waste of time. Alfred isn’t going to give up any of Bruce’s secrets.” 

“Probably not right offhand,” Tam admitted. “I’m playing the long game. Besides, if anyone might know whether Bruce is really out of his depth or not, it would be Alfred. If Alfred thinks it’s none of our business, then it most probably isn’t.”

Alfred returned with a tray of silverware and a dish of carefully arranged biscuits and tiny cakes. “Tea? Coffee?” he inquired politely. There were only two cups, each of which Alfred carefully set before Tam and Diana. 

“Coffee,” Diana said. “Thanks.”

“Same for me.” 

Alfred poured, pushed forward the little cup of sugar and the tiny pouring jug of milk, and set the jug down, hands folded behind his back. “Oh God, Alfred, please sit down,” Tam suggested. “I’m going to strain my neck.” 

“That would not be appropriate.” 

“You can’t be serious. Bruce is halfway across the world. We won’t tell. He won’t care.” 

“I do believe that he _will_ care that you’re here while he _is_ away,” Alfred said mildly, staying put. 

“That’ll teach me for trying to expand your social circle.” Tam sighed. “Alfred, meet Diana Trevor.”

“Pleased. Your Highness.”

“Not funny,” Tam began, then she noticed Diana’s little frown. “What. Really?” 

“Unlike your father you have a blithe tendency to put your trust in people without learning more about them first,” Alfred said mildly. “Princess Diana was born to one Queen Hippolyta on a Mediterranean island that they, the Amazons, call ‘Paradise Island’. That much was in the account of one Steven Trevor, WWII pilot, who crash-landed on the Island only to mysteriously reappear in Princess Diana’s company sometime later behind Allied lines in London, where they made themselves known to the American embassy. The subsequent report was marked confidential and buried.” 

“Made for good reading?” Diana asked dryly. “And please don’t call me ‘Princess’ or ‘Your Highness’. We don’t do veneration on Paradise Island. ‘Diana’ will be fine. Or ‘Ms Trevor’, if you really have to.” 

“It was interesting reading,” Alfred corrected. “You crossed to New York as Diana Trevor, née Prince, to assist with your new husband’s convalescence and reintegration into society. The world war was already ending. Life was difficult. The two of you moved into more affordable lodgings in the outskirts of Metropolis, where you met Lucius Fox, aged ten.” 

Diana nodded. “Smart boy.” 

“He tells me that you’re capable of taking on the Superman.” 

“If it comes to that. I doubt that it will.” Diana said carefully. “I’ve looked at the videos and read the reports. I think that Superman isn’t a threat to humanity. Not a direct threat, in any case. He seems only interested in handling crisis situations. His handlers are probably being careful.” 

“Did you have a handler?”

“The OSS assigned one to me briefly, yes. By the time that eventually became what’s now known as the CIA, they’d lost interest.”

Tam blinked. “That was easy.”

Diana let out a mirthless chuckle. “There was some brief talk about possibly drafting me into the Korean war, but I refused. Empathetically.” 

“How empathetically?” Tam grinned.

“Some furniture suffered,” Diana admitted. “After that, I think the CIA and I decided to live apart. It’s been a mutually satisfactory relationship since. They’ve never really known what to do with me anyway. The military didn’t really want to have to deal with some sort of superpowered female foreign-born American-by-marriage. Hell, they’ve only _just_ started to recruit women for combat positions. As to the CIA, it wasn’t really sure which of their boxes I fit into either.” 

Alfred had walked over to the window, hands still pressed behind his back, pensive. “I’ve known Master Bruce all his life. I’ve been his sole caretaker for three decades. Each time I’ve let him pick his fights without judgment - and tried to pick up after him. Somedays he nearly kills himself trying, and I’m left wondering… is this truly loyalty? Or is it wilful blindness, masquerading as loyalty?”

“No one doubts that you’re loyal to Bruce,” Tam frowned. “I’m not asking you to betray him. I know you’d never do that.”

“Why _are_ you here, then?” Alfred shot back, without turning around. “While he’s on a plane, halfway across the world?”

“Because I’m also his friend,” Tam retorted. “And I’m his partner in the latest fight he’s picked, and if he’s doing shit behind my back - or worse, if he’s trying to _protect me_ from something? I want to know.” Alfred bowed his head, exhaling. “Alfred,” Tam added gently. “If you tell me, right now, that Remembrance is all there is, that Bruce is on the level with me on everything and there’s nothing to worry about, I’ll believe you. We’ll have tea and leave.” 

Alfred’s hands clenched and unclenched at his back, and he stayed silent. Wordlessly, Diana sipped her tea, offering Tam a half-shake of her head when Tam started to open her mouth. Tam scowled, and selected a biscuit instead, eating it. 

“Two years ago,” Alfred said finally, “While you and Master Bruce were settling the lawsuits and payouts, he once asked me. How do you control a force of nature?” 

“Superman’s not a force of nature,” Tam scoffed. “He’s sentient.”

“That’s what I said. More accurately, the question would be, how do you control something that thinks, but is innately, immensely powerful, who defies the laws of physics, who is invulnerable, incredibly strong, has the power of flight and more? How, should we say, could you control God?” 

“Superman isn’t a God either.” Diana said quietly. 

“And by Lucius’ words, you are very similar to him, perhaps without the power of flight,” Alfred turned to regard her soberly. “Are all your people like you?” 

Diana nodded. “More or less.”

“How do you approach those who break your laws?” 

“If they are violent, we subdue them. If they are beyond reason, we calm them. Once everyone is calm, we talk things through. Why the transgression happened. Why the victim has been wronged. What the penance might be. It is meant to be a process of collective healing, out of necessity. We are very, very long lived, and must spend our years with each other.” 

“Really? No jails?” Tam asked. 

“Lawbreaking is rare. Everyone has their place. Dialogue is a far better means of resolving a dispute, for people who can count their lives in terms of centuries.”

“Ah,” Alfred said wryly. “There you have it. Setting aside the existence of other superpowered beings available to instil order… how could an ordinary person hope to stop God?” 

Tam wrinkled her nose. “Putting aside the whole question of religion… in a straight out contest, you don’t. Bruce and I thought about it. There’s no easy way we can stop Superman head on, if he ever goes hostile. That’s why we chose to do it politically. Remembrance isn’t just about giving Superman a sign that he hasn’t gotten away with Ground Zero. It’s about showing his handlers that we haven’t forgotten what they’ve got loose. And it’s about telling everyone _else_ to wake the fuck up.” 

“He’s not invincible,” Diana pointed out. “Zod died. And more importantly, if you watch early CCTV footage of their fight, Zod struggles at the start. Something in the air hurts his lungs: he acts like he’s burning up inside. He only stabilised after a while. It’s possible that the oxygen content on Earth is higher than that on Krypton. A highly oxygenated atmosphere could hurt Superman.” 

“That’s a really, really elaborate trap to spring on a hypothetical. Not to mention the moment he stabilises we’d still be fucked.”

Alfred grimaced at the expletive. “Yes, Superman’s not invincible. Through the basic fact that he seems to have chosen to live as a human.”

“We don’t know that,” Tam began, then she narrowed her eyes sharply. “Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me that Bruce _knows where Superman is?_ Since when?” Alfred said nothing. “Hang on a minute. One month ago Bruce suddenly stopped dithering over the paperwork. We could’ve launched Remembrance half a year ago once all the funding was in place, back when I was thinking of maybe backing someone buyable, picking up a one-topic candidate. Bruce wasn’t sure. Then one month ago he was all for it. We filed papers. We were going to have the presser in Gotham, but he insisted on Metropolis. Closer to Ground Zero, he said. _Nice and symbolic_ , he said. I told him that when you trot out a hundred and fifty million, you could do a presser on the Eiffel _Tower_ for all that anyone would care.”

“Bruce knows who Superman is,” Diana guessed. “And he’s living among people in Metropolis.” 

“Did he meet him as well? Shit. I don’t believe it,” Tam said incredulously, when Alfred still stayed silent. “ _That’s_ why he’s been so weirdly distracted since the presser. He went and faced Superman himself, did he? Fucking _typical_.”

“‘How do you control a God?’” Diana repeated. “By taking away his supporters. And by showing him that he is not all-powerful. Gods become nothing when no one believes in them.”

“Alfred, what happened?” Tam asked urgently. “Did Bruce _really_ talk to Superman?”

“Ms Fox,” Alfred said hesitantly, instead of answering. “Should Master Bruce pass away abruptly, are you aware of what that would entail?” 

“Yeah,” Tam said grimly. “Don’t worry, Alfred. It won’t come to that. But I’ve seen the documents. You’re also a trustee.” 

“Other than what you’ve seen, there is one more thing,” Alfred said quietly. “Before I served the Waynes I was a soldier. Royal Marines. I learned how to obey orders. But I also learned how to gauge a strategy - and the enemy. I’m concerned that Master Bruce’s strategy, for what it’s worth at present, is headed inevitably towards a state of mutually assured destruction.”

“Sounds like something Bruce would do,” Tam agreed. “When faced with a seemingly immovable force.”

“I’ve stood aside all his life while he made decisions that I didn’t agree with,” Alfred said tiredly. “I have always been there to watch him suffer the consequences. Pick up the pieces. This time, I think he’s finally gambled too much. ‘How do you stop a God?’ I think that you can’t. Not alone.” He pulled a small chip from his pocket and tossed it to Tam. “You know your way down to the Cave?” 

“Yeah.” Tam got to her feet, sober. “Alfred.” 

“I’ve written a letter of resignation,” Alfred said wanly. “I’m aware that this constitutes a fundamental breach of trust.”

“Don’t… Alfred, tear that up. Bruce needs you. I mean that. He’ll understand.” 

“We’ll see,” Alfred said gravely, and turned back to the window. Tam motioned Diana to follow her, and they walked out of the drawing room, down another corridor. Tam was clearly familiar with the large house, angling down one corridor, then the next, until they were in some sort of large library, probably on the opposite end of the manor. She felt between some of the books, tugging, and there was a grinding sound as the apparently seamless wall cracked open to show a door. 

Before Tam went down, she turned, frowning up at Diana. “All right. Before this goes any further. What do you know about the Batman?”

“Next to nothing,” Diana admitted. “Seems he died in the Bane event.” 

“… Good. Then you’re probably going into this without any prejudices.” Tam let out a long breath, then she took a step into the dark. Automatic lights banked on with low, even _thunks_ , fluorescent bars that followed them as they descended down the narrow corkscrew stairs, hemmed in by stone. 

“… Bruce Wayne is the _Batman_?” Diana asked skeptically. 

“I always thought it was pretty damn obvious even before Lucius told me,” Tam said grumpily. “There was something weird about how the manor has no other staff, enough though Bruce can damned well afford it. All the shiny toys the Batman has. The car, with the WayneTech plating. That little hoverjet, with WayneTech propulsion engines. The way Bruce’s absolutely notorious for dozing off at board meetings. Who else in Gotham’s both rich enough to self-fund a mini vigilante empire _and_ arm himself with the latest in WayneTech?” 

“Someone who isn’t close to Bruce Wayne probably wouldn’t have figured it out.” 

“Yeah, he cultivates that playboy look for all he’s worth. Only gave up on it recently, when he retired the cowl. He used to say it was the most boring part of being the Bat.” Tam rolled her eyes. “Only Bruce would find having to live it up for the tabloids _boring_.” 

“A man who chooses to spend his time as a vigilante is probably an adrenaline junkie,” Diana pointed out. “We had people like that in Paradise Island. The only thing they lived for was the rush of battle. Earlier in our history, there were more of them. We used to go to war regularly.”

“And then?”

“The brutality of war corrupts. The previous Queen saw that. She decided to withdraw us from the world. Change us from a warlike race into a pacifistic one.” 

“I bet that didn’t go down well.”

“No,” Diana admitted. “There was a civil war. We destroyed ourselves. Then, so wounded, we closed ourselves off to the rest of the world. Centuries of living with war as a fundamental part of our culture could not be so easily erased.” 

They had come out onto a narrow walkway that ran from the wall into a cavern, branching out into the dark. Somewhere beyond them was the constant sibilant chittering of hundreds upon hundreds of bats, as more lights banked on, string above the walkway to a landing beyond, a huge platform dominated by a vast computer. There was a cubical sterile room behind it, containing banks upon banks of tall black boxes, wired up together, feeding out to the workbench with the high-backed chair. The screens flickered to life as Tam approached, and every single one featured Superman. News articles. Social media sightings. A CCTV feed within some office bisected by cubicles. 

“Not creepy at all,” Tam said skeptically. “Good fucking God.” 

“Welcome, Tam Fox,” said an asexual voice from around the computer. There was a five second pause, then a receptacle fed out of the workbench, with a tiny slot opening at the top. Tam fed Alfred’s chip into it and sat down in the high chair, exhaling loudly as the receptacle fed back in.

The screens flickered, then they cleared to show a single image. It was Bruce, sitting in the chair, staring intently at the camera. “Tam,” he said, with surprising gentleness. “If you’re watching this, then I’m most probably dead, and Alfred would’ve given you the key. I’m sorry. In an optimal result, whatever happened, the Superman is probably dead as well, or taken off the board. If so, say it. ’Superman is dead’. This computer will wipe its memory. My lawyers will want to speak to you tomorrow. Your family - and Alfred - have been my only family for years. I have never told any of you how grateful I was for that. I guess it’s pathetic that I had to wait until I was dead to show it.”

Diana sneaked a glance at Tam. She was in tears. “Goddamn it, Bruce,” Tam whispered. “The hell have you done now?”

The recording waited, another five seconds, frozen, then Bruce on screen exhaled. “So I’m dead, and Superman is alive. That’s not an optimal result. I know you’re probably mad at me. But I had to try it by myself. This _was_ my idea. Alfred once asked me, ‘How do you stop a God?’ The answer to that is… I believe everyone has their levers. Even something close to being a God. So if you’re seeing this, I’ve tried and failed to get my hands on the controls. I’m sorry to leave things up to you.”

Bruce glanced away to the side, leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “The thing is,” he said, as he glanced back at the screen. “It’s obvious enough what the Superman’s weaknesses are, based on what happened to Zod. A strong enough force, applied to his neck, can kill him. A highly oxygenated atmosphere can probably kill him. But how do you stop God - _without_ having to resort to complex traps, or depend on another God? I read a lot of science fiction. I wanted to see what people used to looking towards the future would think. And the answer was in two books. The _War of the Worlds_ , and the _Dark Forest_.”

“He didn’t,” Tam said, disbelievingly. 

“How do you stop a God? The answer is: _turn whatever makes it a God against itself._ WayneTech’s had access to samples from Zod’s body - you know that much. A subsidiary of WaynePharma has been studying it from the start, in conjunction with Area 51. We were, on paper, interested in studying it relative to the human condition, possibly to reverse-engineer it to counteract human illnesses. But I was also interested in knowing how alien genetic material would react to Earthbound infections. In _War of the Worlds_ , the common cold destroys the aliens. In the _Dark Forest_ , the aliens manufacture a highly specific genetic illness, targeted towards one individual. Was it possible to create a virus to target a specific alien species, while being benign to humans?”

On screen, Bruce shrugged. “We didn’t have much of a breakthrough for a while. I think the Kryptonians are heavily bio-engineered. They’re extremely resistant to any complex diseases: the more multifunctional the disorder, somehow, the more resistant they are to it. So we went simpler. Concentrated on viruses, particularly ancient, extinct strains. Most viruses copy themselves by hijacking a host’s molecular machinery. Was it possible, I asked, to create a viral agent that was so primitive and simple that a Kryptonian system didn’t see it as a threat?” 

“Don’t tell me…” Tam said softly. 

“The materials are all in the computer. But we did it. We had a breakthrough a month or so ago. That’s when I decided we needed to up the ante. Just because it worked on Zod’s genetic material didn’t mean much. I needed a biological sample from Superman himself.” Bruce smiled thinly. “Don’t think about how I got it, you won’t like the answer. But anyway, once I studied it - I thought we were back to square one. Superman’s genetic code, for some reason, is even more complex than Zod’s. Actually, that’s an understatement. It’s an insanely convoluted DNA sequence: trying to study it nearly broke Computer. But the virus worked,” Bruce said grimly. “It still worked.”

The receptacle flicked out again, this time clicking open, revealing a small, pale green vial. “It didn’t destroy the sequence. But it broke it down. Brought it down to something that looked closer to human. I don’t know if that’s the solution. Or whether it’d really make Superman vulnerable. But that’s the only solution I can think of right now. Maybe you have other ideas - if so, try those first. Or destroy this recording and the sample, forget all of this and live your life, whatever you want. This is just an option that I want you to have.” Bruce leaned forward, his expression grave. “Goodbye, Tam. Give everyone my love. Thank you for everything that you’ve done for me.” 

The recording flicked off, and Tam shakily reached for the vial. As her hand got closer, it twisted around, automatically loosing itself from the catch. Stamped neatly in silver along its flank, in thin letters, was the word ‘KRYPTONITE’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Oxygen: have this weirdly quirky sci-fi discussion on reddit https://www.reddit.com/r/tumblr/comments/3561ib/death_breathers/
> 
> Viruses: http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2014/07/140716-giant-viruses-science-life-evolution-origins/


	9. Chapter 9

6.0.

Tokyo was a shock to the senses. Clark found himself openly gawking out of the window of the helicopter that had picked them up from Haneda airport - the city that rose up beneath them once they were in what Bruce distractedly called ‘the central part’ was a morass of skyscrapers, a vast urban sprawl. And the _people_. Clark had never seen so many people together in one place before, thickly bunched together on the streets below in a seething mass of humanity.

Bruce was glowering at his phone, scrolling rapidly through emails. “I’ve got a meeting at Wayne Tower in Marunouchi, and then we’ll get dinner after,” he called over the roar of the rotor blades. “No idea how long it’d take. Meet and greet, but I think they’re also going to want to update me on the region.” 

“If I’m going to be in the way-“ 

“It’s just going to be glad handling and boredom,” Bruce said dismissively. “Tell you what, you can do your job. Ask our Japanese regional director some softball questions, write me a nice puff piece.” He smirked. 

“Is _that_ why I’m here?” Clark grinned back. “Mister Wayne, I’m shocked. You can’t buy good press.” 

“Says you,” Bruce drawled, patting Clark’s knee. “So far the free press seems… eminently… malleable.” He patted Clark between his legs, and Clark yelped, twitching away, looking guiltily towards the cockpit. Thankfully, the pilot seemed oblivious.

“Bruce!” 

Bruce laughed at him but thankfully was quickly re-absorbed with his emails, still tapping at the phone even as they landed on the H-pad of one of the skyscrapers, ducking out. They were met on the landing pad by a phalanx of mostly middle-aged Japanese men in seemingly identical black and white suits, and one woman, resplendent in a fuchsia pants suit. She seemed to be in her early fifties, perhaps, with some silver in her severely neat bob of hair, her face round and soft-cheeked. She glanced at Clark with polite curiosity for a moment before looking back at Bruce, striding over to shake his hand. 

“Matsuhida-san,” Bruce greeted her, and to Clark’s surprise, started speaking in Japanese. Matsuhida smiled, replying in kind, and they spoke in rapid-fire for a while before Bruce finally gestured at Clark. She shook his hand, her grip firm and warm.

“Always a pleasure to meet a member of the American press,” Matsuhida said, in barely accented English. “I am told that you are here to write us a great deal of flattery, Kent-san.” 

“Not what I said,” Bruce protested, though he smirked. 

“Still starting to see a pattern,” Clark told him, and they were ushered into Wayne Tower. 

Within, Clark found himself struggling to stay focused. His usual pieces were about natural disasters and rescue efforts, with the occasional travel feature. He had no idea what he was meant to say about Wayne Enterprises. Most of the Tower was actually rented out to other companies: Wayne Enterprises only occupied the top six floors, coordinating the supply of WayneTech in Japan, according to the occasional, bilingual wall-length infographic. Eventually, perhaps even Matsuhida sensed Clark’s distraction: she slipped comfortably back to Japanese as they toured two of the six floors and sat in at some meeting, watching a presentation - again in Japanese - about some incomprehensible projects. 

When it was over, Clark felt so relieved that he hoped that it didn’t show. People were slowly filing out of the board room, though Bruce lingered, speaking animatedly with Matsuhida. At one point she asked a question, and Bruce, smiling, replied. 

“Sukiyabashi Jiro? By car?” Matsuhida switched smoothly to English. “I would not advise it, Wayne-san.” 

“The traffic’s that bad?” 

“Well,” Matsuhida said, with a discreet cough, “May I be direct?”

“Always.”

“The one you know as ‘Superman’ is very popular in Japan,” Matsuhida noted carefully. “Particularly after his work in Taiwan. We are also, as you know, a very earthquake prone country. This man… this _being_ , who can move pieces of a whole building aside with his bare hands, to dig out those who would otherwise die… do you see? His popularity here, it is close to worship.”

“I see.” Bruce said, his expression going blank. 

“So although it has all been quite peaceful so far, the, ah, _Superman no yūjin tachi_ … ‘Friends of Superman’, they have been picketing Wayne Tower for a while. Since the Taiwanese earthquake. You may be recognised. They may be… very rude, to you and your guest.” 

“This is Tokyo,” Bruce noted dismissively, “No one’s going to get torn apart on the street. Even your _yakuza_ find owning guns too troublesome. Besides, we’ll be in a car. Tinted windows will serve.” 

“But you will not be in a car in Sukiyabashi Jiro,” Matsuhida said gently. 

“I don’t think anyone’s ever died in a three star Michelin restaurant,” Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Probably the only thing we’re going to risk is disappointment. Thanks for your concern. See you tomorrow at the plant.” 

Security was tight on the way down to the private executive car park level, and in the lifts, Bruce seemed tense as he checked his phone, not even bothering to look at the view behind him, the glass-fronted elevator opening out into a large square far beneath, choked with cars. “Bruce,” Clark said uncomfortably, as he noticed the picket line with his enhanced vision. There were a considerable number of people, waving signs. “Is this a good idea?” 

“We’re in _Japan_ , not some outlaw wasteland,” Bruce shot back, bitingly quick. “I’m not about to be intimidated by fanatics. Relax,” he added, forcing a smile. “If this was anywhere back home, those people would just be like your colleagues, following me around everywhere.” 

“I didn’t even know that there were people like that,” Clark ventured, troubled. “Worshipping Superman.”

“I would be surprised if there weren’t. People _love_ heroes. Whether it’s somebody who runs into a house to save a cat, or wins some sporting event, whatever it is. What more something that could rescue quake victims barehanded? We’re herd animals at heart. Besides, worshipping the Superman might even be tax-deductible in some countries.” 

“You think this is funny?” Clark said, looking incredulous. “They’re picketing your building!” 

“It’s Japan. No one’s going to get shot. Nothing’s going to catch fire. There’ll be a lot of screaming and shouting and eventually everyone will get tired. It’s probably the most entertaining thing to have happened in Marunouchi in years.” 

Flippancy or not, Bruce said not a word the moment they got into the car, a Mercedes with black tinted windows. The moment the driver took them out of the security gate, they were inundated. The car inched forward, determined, while the crowd pulled back, security and police working to push back the line. Clark flinched back away from the car window as a woman pushed briefly free, the bottom half of her face masked with a white cloth, upon which had been stamped the crest of House El in blood-red ink. She screamed at the car, a wordless bellowing cry of rage, before she was roughly pulled back behind the line. The crowd rumbled in a low thrum of answering anger, handmade signs waved in the air. Many were dressed in copies of his suit, also handmade, the red and blue harshly lit under security lamps. When the car finally inched free into traffic, Clark relaxed, with a shaky exhalation.

“That’s celebrity for you,” Bruce said neutrally, and smiled, as sharp and as cold as a knife.

VI.

Bruce kept the house at Den-en-chōfu out of a whim. Sometimes he let friends use it - Tam and her family liked to borrow it whenever they visited Tokyo. Most of the time, like his Metropolis apartment, it stayed empty, a modern, blocky house, stylish enough, one shiny toy in a string of shiny toys that Bruce had scattered around the world.

Clark seemed subdued. He had been quiet since Wayne Tower, even through dinner, and now that they were alone, he looked around slowly, as though lost and trying to find some frame of reference. “Wifi password’s probably somewhere near the guestbook,” Bruce waved over at the neat leather-bound books beside the flatscreen tv. “I’m going to have a shower. There are a few bathrooms around the house, pick one. Or have a drink from the bar. Whatever you like.” 

“Right,” Clark said softly. 

“What’s the matter? Didn’t like the dinner? I probably should’ve asked you whether you even liked sushi.”

“It was good,” Clark noted awkwardly. “I’m just a bit. Shaken, I guess. From before.” 

“You’re a reporter,” Bruce began, surprised, then bit back the rest of his words, forcing a kinder tone. _Superman_ felt _shaken_? That was interesting. “We weren’t followed here, don’t worry. No one’s going to be picketing the house. And the plant’s hours from Tokyo, where security’s far tighter.” 

“I’m not worried about _me_ ,” Clark stared at Bruce unhappily. “I just. That was unexpected. Are there people like that back home?”

“You tell me, you’re the press,” Bruce was getting tired of feigning sympathy. “Tam and I knew what we were getting into, all right? Superman’s pretty popular back home as well, not just internationally. Hate mail, fake bomb threats, angry people, that’s life as usual whenever you make a splash in the so-called free world nowadays. But have I ever been in the middle of an actual ‘Friends of Superman’ protest? No. First time for everything.” 

“I think it’s terrible. That kind of anger, directed at a single _person_.” 

“I _did_ raise a lot of money in protest against their God,” Bruce said, smiling, and watched with quiet satisfaction as Clark flinched and averted his eyes. “Settle down and have a drink. I’ll be back.” 

Bruce felt less jetlagged in fresh clothes, padding down the winding stairs, looking for Clark. It looked like Clark had showered quickly as well - his hair was damp and he was in different clothes, a loose shirt and track pants, and he had set up a battered Macbook on the dining table. Under the bulk of Clark’s shoulders, the laptop looked comically tiny, and Clark smiled sheepishly as Bruce strode over, tipping his head up to beg for a kiss. 

“Tell me you’re writing my puff piece,” Bruce made a show of peering at the screen. Clark had opened up Chrome and Word, and had been searching up on the ‘Friends of Superman’. The image reel was plastered with photographs of protesters, their faces contorted with rage, often standing somewhere with a Wayne building in the background. There was even a set that was facing off against False God counter protesters, police physically holding off both sides with a wall of shields. Bruce dragged his stare away, shuddering. He should give Barbara a call, maybe. Just to check in.

“Maybe later?”

“Liar. If you’re not about to write something nice about my company, then it can’t be that important. Entertain me.” 

“I’ll catch up,” Clark said apologetically, “I really want to get this done while it’s still on my mind.” 

“All right,” Bruce said, with a reluctance that he found he didn’t have to fake.

“But I’ll make it up to you in the morning? Uhm. The fridge is stocked, I can make breakfast.” 

“You can cook?” 

“My mum taught me. I see that you don’t believe me,” Clark added, with a faint smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t burn down your fancy house.” 

“Thank God for electric stoves, hm?” Bruce let himself get shooed off to bed, smirking, though once alone in bed, he lay on his flank for a long time, flicking through news sites on his phone. Tam had been oddly silent, even after Bruce had sent her a brisk, mildly sardonic message about the evening’s meeting, and he frowned at his screen for a while before giving up. Sometimes, whenever Tam decided it was family time and switched off, she went offline on all fronts; trying to contact her only made her surly. 

Exhaling, Bruce rolled onto his back, and called Barbara. She picked up after a few rings, her tone neutral. “Mister Wayne.”

“Ouch.” 

“What do you want?” 

“Just thought I’d check in,” Bruce said carefully. “How’re things?”

“Only you would just call the Commissioner instead of Googling it like a normal person,” Barbara said, though her tone was slightly less testy. “Things are tense, but nothing’s been set on fire, if you must know. Some pro-Superman people picketed your Tower, but there were False God people there as well. Everyone behaved themselves.”

“That’s good.”

“No one’s tried picketing your house, either. Wonder why.” 

“Far away, very cold in the mornings, not enough press,” Bruce guessed. “Just met some of the pro-Superman people myself. Lovely.”

“What? Are you all right? Where are you?”

“I’m fine. Tokyo.” Despite his darkening mood, Bruce smiled thinly to himself with relief. He was getting too old to really start losing the few true friends he _did_ have. 

“Okay,” Barbara said dubiously. “Stay safe. And don’t worry. If something _does_ blow up again? I’ll let you know. Loudly.” 

Bruce slept, woke briefly out of habit at some horrific hour in the morning when Clark climbed in, meek and apologetic, and went back to sleep, rolling over. The morning’s round of sex was lazy and slow, with Clark again relentlessly gentle; Bruce gave up trying to goad him on and allowed himself to be pinned to the bed, adoration soft in the breaths that Clark pressed against Bruce’s shoulders, worship in the light-fingered caresses up Bruce’s thighs and flanks. No one had ever touched Bruce like this before, with such consuming tenderness. Without all the lies between them, it would have been shattering. 

Clark turned out to be a surprisingly fair cook, tricking up pancakes and bacon and even a decent cup of coffee. “Your mum would be so proud,” Bruce told him, after a sip. “When do I get to meet her?” 

“Meet-“ Clark started coughing, and nearly spat his coffee across the kitchen bench. Bruce smirked as Clark stammered, “Well uh, I don’t know if she’ll really, that is, maybe not yet, but, sometime.” 

“What’s the problem?”

“You’re kind of. Larger than life.” 

“Pssh, I get along fine with the nice old ladies demographic.” So Martha Kent was aware of what her 'son' was. Bruce paused, pretending to misunderstand the point. “Or is it something else? The fact that I’m a guy?” 

“Uh. Could be. I never did tell her about well. She’s only ever met my ex. Ex-girlfriend.” 

“Small town farm in a red, red state, hm,” Bruce arched an eyebrow. “Actually, it’s funny how _you’re_ so liberal, given where you grew up.” 

“There’re Democrats even in Texas,” Clark pointed out. “Besides, the Daily Planet’s a fairly liberal paper. Could say that I’ve been duly influenced.” 

“And is that easy? To change your mind on something?” 

Clark smiled at him, almost shy. “Depends on the person.” 

They kissed on the couch until the car came, though Clark spent the hour-long drive hunched over his laptop. “What _are_ you writing about?” 

“Just some edits,” Clark said guiltily. “I’ll write a Wayne article… later?”

“I’m getting lied to,” Bruce said, with mock sadness. “I can sense it.’

“Well uh, what’s this place that we’re going to?”

“Clean energy facility. _Also_ nuclear decontamination research. Fukushima’s still a problem here. I want to fix that.” 

“Isn’t that a worthier thing to celebrate than Superman?”

“The Taiwanese earthquake only just happened. While R&D will take years, and we might not even find a solution. I’ve been to Futaba, only last year. It’s incredible. You can drive right there… it’s mostly empty, like everyone’s disappeared all of a sudden. Only the grass growing through the roads and the rust on the cars tells you the earthquake and the tsunami was years back.” 

“Isn’t the town still radioactive?” 

“Irradiated, yes. And they’ve built a dump to store contaminated waste, to be left there for three decades. Ideally I’d like to come up with a solution before that.”

The R&D facility wasn’t exactly fully functional yet, but at least Clark actually showed enough interest to ask Matsuhida some questions. Bruce didn’t pay them much attention. Talking about Fukushima had just reminded him. Five years ago, where _was_ Superman? There had been some scattered, inexplicable incidents around the States, but nothing else. Nothing in the rest of the world, not that Bruce could find. It was a sobering thought. Assuming that his information wasn’t just spotty… Either Superman cared little about the world until Ground Zero happened, or worse - that the powers he had that had so devastated Metropolis were still _developing_. Maybe five years ago Superman didn’t yet have the power of flight. What would God become, in the next five years? 

Bruce thought about it on the flight back, so preoccupied that he didn’t complain when Clark spent most of his time writing. Things seemed to be going as planned, but he didn’t feel much satisfaction about it, even when Clark tentatively asked if Bruce wanted to proofread the article. “Sure.”

“You don’t have to,” Clark said, probably sensing insincerity.

“I’ve read a lot of your articles,” Bruce hooked the laptop over. That was a lie: Bruce had read _all_ of Clark’s articles, when he had been trying to gain a better understanding of the creature he faced, and had concluded that Clark was a well-meaning but not particularly talented writer. This article about the False God and Friends of Superman movements wasn’t much better than the rest, but it was earnest enough, Bruce supposed. A trite little feature discussing the rise of each movement and decrying violence, calling for civil discourse blah blah. 

“You don’t like it,” Clark guessed. 

“Thanks for mentioning Wayne R&D. Matsuhida-san will be pleased.”

“What don’t you like about it?” Clark asked, so very doggedly earnest. 

“For an article about two movements that are essentially more or less purely emotional, there’s no emotion in this. How about starting it like a story? ‘It was clear that the roar that drowned out the constant rumble of traffic in Marunouchi wasn’t part of usual beat of the corporate heart of Tokyo. The escalating, furious shouts of ‘Wayne, wa yamero!’ pitched upward, like war cries, echoing around the world, in fifteen countries, fifteen languages, at the foot of every Wayne Tower. It’s a wonder that Bruce Wayne has chosen not to listen.’” Bruce smiled thinly. “Something like that.” 

Clark grimaced. “Very dramatic.” 

“I know. It’s a character flaw.” Bruce pushed the laptop back over. 

“And have you? Chosen not to listen?” 

“I take the safety of my employees very seriously, wherever they are. So yes,” Bruce said shortly. “I’m listening.” 

The rest of the flight back was quiet. Bruce spent most of it bored and asleep, given that Clark was politely ignoring him, having actually taken him seriously enough to painstakingly try a rewrite. When they landed in Gotham, Bruce was relieved. No more hopping across the world just to prove a point, he decided, as the airstairs were rolled up to the plane, the door cycled open by attendants. Bruce was getting a little too old for elaborate measures. 

To his surprise, Tam and Diana were waiting down on the tarmac, Tam wrapped up in a white wool coat, and Diana dressed all in black, a turtleneck and jeans. There was an odd black cloth sack leaning against her thigh, and as Bruce stared at the both of them, astonished, Diana rolled up her sleeves, baring sleek bronze bracers, and bent. With a flick of her wrist, Diana tugged up what looked like some sort of bronze _shield_ , strapping it neatly to her right arm. 

“Tam… the hell is this about?” Bruce asked warily, approaching them. 

“We found something interesting on your Computer,” Tam replied evenly, her eyes narrowed and hard. She looked past Bruce’s shoulder, towards Clark. “And I think it’s about time that _I_ had a word with the Superman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Tokyo is a shock to the senses” - inspired by caption of this video https://vimeo.com/129171397
> 
> On protesting in Japan - recently, this great movement (didn’t work though): http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/sep/16/japanese-anti-war-protesters-challenge-shinzo-abe
> 
> Bruce’s yakuza comment: http://www.japantimes.co.jp/news/2013/01/06/national/media-national/even-gangsters-live-in-fear-of-japans-gun-laws/#.Vt4U34x95Gw
> 
> Futaba description: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/japan/japan-earthquake-and-tsunami-in/12186546/fukushima-tsunami-fifth-anniversary-exclusion-zone-pictures.html
> 
> Sukiyabashi Jiro - if you haven’t heard of it, watch this awesome trailer, Jiro Dreams of Sushi: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1UDS2kgqY8 :D You can probably find the film online. 
> 
> I use real estate agents / AirBnB for property research lol. this is the house http://www.sothebysrealty.com/eng/sales/detail/180-l-4432-65jjc5/denenchofu-residence-ota-ku-to


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a two chapter update :)

v.

Diana rolled her shoulders, limbering up, and felt, for the first time in over seven decades, the familiar adrenaline spike of battle-fever. This wasn’t an ideal situation. Although Tam had somehow muscled the Wayne section of Gotham airport into shutting down, Diana was keenly aware that there were still far too many civilians even in her immediate vicinity. Pilot, flight attendants, Bruce, Tam. She was going to have to lure Superman out into a better testing ground.

Before her, Bruce and Tam were arguing, while beside Bruce, Superman looked bewildered, hunched in on himself, wearing those ridiculous boxy spectacles. His eyes flicked from Tam to Diana, studying her with the same confused curiosity, and she smiled back, not quite friendly, not quite hostile. It had been too long since Diana had fought in any meaningful contest, and she found that she had missed it. For all that the previous Queen had tried to change the Amazons, war was part of them, in their hearts, bone deep. The civil war, on hindsight, had probably been inevitable.

“-Tam, I knew what I was doing.”

“Maybe,” Tam shot back, “But it was going to blow up in your face sooner or later and you _fucking knew it_. Why the hell else would you record a _fucking_ ‘If you’re watching this I’m dead’ clip? Congratulations, Bruce. You finally freaked Alfred the hell out. And given what you’ve put that poor man through over the years, that’s saying something.”

“Alfred gave you the key?” Bruce demanded, blinking. “Then-“ 

“Oh yeah. What did you call that thing you had in there? ‘Kryptonite’?”

At that word, Superman flinched. “Krypton…? Bruce,” he said uncertainly. “What… you knew?” 

Bruce frowned at him, for a long, uneasy moment, then he looked up sharply at the airstairs. “Hugh, Linda, Kate, get out of here. Now.” The pilot and the attendants scrambled down off the airstairs, hurrying away towards the Wayne Enterprises private hangar. “Yes, Clark. I knew.” 

Superman - Clark - let out a shaky laugh, more of a wounded breath than mirth. “And to think… all this time… God I was so scared about _telling_ you. I should’ve _known_ it was too big a fluke. Too good to be true. You only wanted to get close to me because I was Superman?” 

“Didn’t even try to deny it. I like that,” Tam told Bruce sardonically, her hands clenched under her coat. Bruce’s face twisted briefly, as though in sudden hurt, though he smoothed it blank, his eyes narrowed slightly, already recalculating his strategy. 

“Tam-“

“Don’t you take that tone with me,” Tam snarled. “I lost my _baby sister_ in that Tower. My father’s pride and joy. The light of _my_ life. Three years without her and some days I still wake up thinking she’s gonna call me in the morning, the way she always used to. Some days I walk down the street and I see her face. But it’s never her. It’ll never be her, ever again. You want to know how she died, Superman? She got crushed to death. _Slowly._ From the autopsy, they think she took half an hour to die. Concrete slowly crushed her ribs into her lungs. Just a little over all the time that you spent being a wrecking ball in a _city_ , hm? We had to bury her in a _closed casket_.” 

Tam slipped a hand into her coat, even as Clark flinched back a step, as though physically struck. “Tam,” Bruce said urgently, darting over to grab for her elbow, but Diana was quicker, already closer, and with a careful push, shoved Bruce right off his feet, sending him sprawling back with a yelp on the tarmac. 

Diana looked up to Clark staring at her, wide-eyed now, with a certain dawning realization, and as she smiled at him again and stepped towards him with long strides, he started to back off, understanding turning quickly into an undisguised horror. Curious. Clark had bested his last opponent, what was he afraid off? He was quick, speeding into the clear, away from Tam and Bruce, probably preparing to take flight, but Diana lunged, not nearly as quick but enough to barrel into him, with enough speed to send them both bowling over the roughened ground. The spectacles were knocked elsewhere, and it _was_ the Superman that she had pinned, under all that unruly hair, the ill-fitting clothes. 

“Fight,” Diana told him, grinning, savage now, heart singing. “Go on. I haven’t had a proper fight for more than half a century.” 

Clark blinked up at her, uncomprehending. “I don’t want to fight anyone.” 

“Do you want to lose your powers? _Fight_.”

“What do you mean-“ Clark flinched as Diana slammed a fist down into the asphalt beside his head, cracking the tarmac. “What _are_ you - are you like me? Kryptonian?” 

All that sudden, naked hope - that undisguised loneliness. For a moment, Diana nearly softened. “No, child,” she said, not unkindly, “But I _am_ something different. Come. Fight.” 

Disappointment welled into something closer to irritation, cut into focus by betrayal and heartbreak. Clark shoved Diana off, and she rolled out of her fall, coming up back into a long-legged run even as Clark scrambled to his feet, tackling him in a bound as he tried to fly and knocking them spinning past the jet, the asphalt tearing up the knees and elbows of their clothes, without marring skin. Clark froze, staring at the patch of skin, unmarked, under her jeans, and Diana laughed, set her wrist, and put her weight behind the blow. Clark caught her fist, an inch from his face, but even as he did Diana was already swinging, catching Clark across the ribs with the edge of her shield, knocking him back. 

“I don’t want to fight!” Clark snapped, his eyes glowing red, all banked fire before it abruptly faded, his fists balled as he got to his feet. “Who _are_ you?” 

“A friend of the world,” Diana stalked closer. “And an outsider.”

Clark backed off, wary. “Are you human?” 

“Are _you_?” Diana sped up, aiming a jab at Clark’s throat, but Clark spun away, eye-blurringly quick, then he yelped as Diana ducked smoothly, spinning, scything out his legs. 

Clark rolled away as the edge of the shield broke a rent into the tarmac, wide-eyed, and sped out of range, another blur of speed. Diana unlatched and flung her shield in his direction, all practiced grace, and predictably, Clark stopped and caught it before it hit him, grasping the edge, distracted just long enough for Diana to come at him, catching him with a string of tight jabs, ribs, belly. Clark doubled over, more startled than hurt, and swung wildly, even as Diana jerked her shield forcibly out of his grasp and turned its domed face right into the force of his punch. The nanoweave held, bucking back the blow, and Clark hissed in surprised pain, scrambling back, rubbing his wrist. 

Diana signed, shaking her head. “No one even taught you how to punch. Sloppy. You lock your wrist, child. Watch where you put your fingers.”

“That _hurt_ ,” Clark said uncertainly, studying her with a newfound curiosity. “How did you do that? That shield-“ 

Clark was quick, at least - he drew the connection between the shield and the bracers with a glance. He set his jaw and blurred over, trying to grapple for Diana’s wrists, but she had seen sudden narrowing of his eyes just before he had moved, and she was already twisting away, pivoting, bringing the edge of the shield around in a sharp arc into the small of his back, knocking Clark sprawling. He snarled, temper fraying now, that handsome face contorting with frustrated anger, and this too was untrained, his discipline, emotions running too hot, too quickly. 

All that betrayed grief, funnelling so quickly into fury. This time when Clark swung at her it wasn’t halfhearted. The wind whistled past her cheek as she jerked to the side, barely in time; Diana kicked out at Clark’s knee, knocking him stumbling. His gaze swung up, burning with that odd red fire again, and Diana barely brought her shield up in time to catch the blast as it slammed into the nanoweave with shocking force, the heat like a _furnace_. Feet braced, she was still forced back. Diana laughed. 

“Try again,” Diana taunted, and Clark’s lip twisted; he launched himself at her, too quickly to evade. They went rolling on the tarmac again, Clark clawing for the clasps on her bracers, Diana hammering precise blows, calm, belly, throat, with her knee and with the heel of her palm. Clark coughed, fumbling, and Diana twisted free and onto his back, jamming her knee against his spine and twisting one of his arms over. Angrily, Clark tried to jerk free, then stilled, clearly surprised, when he couldn’t get free. Barely. Clark was stronger than her, that much was obvious - but he wasn’t _that_ much stronger. 

“Next time,” Diana said gently, “This is how you contain someone without killing them.” 

Clark stared up at her, wide-eyed, then the anger left him all in a rush. He squeezed his eyes shut, his next breath shaky and raw, and Diana looked at as she sensed movement in her periphery vision. It was Tam, with Bruce behind her, the both of them approaching cautiously. Tam nodded at her, and Diana smiled faintly, checking her grip. Not that Clark was trying to struggle now: he merely watched Tam and Bruce come closer, silent and wary. 

Tam had the green glass vial in her palm, and she knelt down on one knee when she was close, dangling it from her thumb and index finger. “That was fast,” she told Diana neutrally. “I have to admit, when you said you could catch the Superman, I kinda didn’t believe you. Now I feel a little bad about it.” 

“I’m used to being underestimated,” Diana replied dryly. 

“As to you… I didn’t finish before,” Tam added flatly. “You took away the one person I loved most in the world. More than my own child… than even my wife. Go on. Give me the excuses. Tell me it wasn’t your fault. Tell me it was the other guy.”

“I’m sorry,” Clark said instead, numbly. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Know what this is? Somebody cooked it up in a WaynePharma lab without telling me about it,” Tam glared briefly up at Bruce. “Seems it’s meant to edit your DNA. Bring you closer to human. God knows what that’d do. Take away your powers? Worse? I’m sure that _somebody_ meant well,” she added tartly, as Bruce sighed, “But I didn’t help found Remembrance to kill you. Or even to hurt you. You see, the _rest of us_ live under failsafes. If I were to walk outside in most functional countries and shoot someone while trying to help someone else, I’d still be taken into custody. There’d be a process. A trial, maybe. That’s how society _works_. People have people watching each other. But you? You’re something else. And worse, there’s a great deal of people out there who also think that you’re above it all. Above our laws.” 

“I don’t think that I should be,” Clark retorted. “If people want to hold me to account? _They’re welcome to do it_. If people want me to go to court, I will. If they want to tell me what I did wrong, I want to hear it. And. If you think that whatever you’re holding is going to take my powers away?” He let out a harsh, low laugh. “Lady, you have no idea how long I’ve wished that I _was_ human.” 

Tam stared at Clark for a long time, her jaw clenched, then she exhaled, and bowed her head. Then she straightened up again, and handed the vial back to Bruce. “Thanks but no thanks,” she told him. “I don’t believe in magic bullets.” 

“Tam,” Bruce said, uncertain now, holding the vial as though afraid that it was going to blow up in his hands. 

“I’ve got a little girl who’s still real proud of her mama,” Tam shrugged. “I don’t want to ever make her regret that.”

7.0.

Bruce was silent even after Diana and Tam left in their car, weighing the vial in his right hand, his face carefully blank. “You’re still not afraid,” Clark said quietly. Bruce’s heartbeat was still steady, calming, and his free hand was loose by his side.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Should I be?” 

“No. You never had anything to fear from me. I can’t believe that you thought that I might kill you.” 

“You’re more than capable of it.” Still fearless. Clark had to take in a few slow breaths, biting down on his grief. “I might add that I never actually intended to use this right offhand. It was a failsafe. In case something _did_ happen. It’s the only sample.”

“In case I killed you.” 

“Whatever the situation might be,” Bruce retorted evenly. “I still don’t know you very well. But I know what you _can_ do. It was a statistical possibility, and I didn’t want to leave Tam completely unarmed if it came to it. That’s all. Besides, you’re obviously more than capable of getting angry. Losing control. Getting caught up.”

“Is that what you think happened before?” 

“I think a number of things happened. First off, watching you fight Diana, I think we’re probably all lucky that you even beat Zod in the first place.” 

“She’s better than he was.”

“Apparently she’s some sort of near-immortal from a warrior culture.” Bruce smiled thinly. “Life’s always so much stranger than fiction.” 

“I kinda wish she’d been there. When I was fighting Zod.” Diana would’ve resolved it so much more quickly. More _easily_. It had never occurred to Clark that he had more to learn.

“Wistful thinking like that is a waste of time. I do think that, for better or worse, you did do your best at that time. With the right training - possibly with Diana - you’d probably do better in the future. What I was _concerned_ about was that you seemed to be happy to leave the past in place.”

“You could have approached me directly,” Clark shot back unhappily. “Just told me from the start that you knew about me. I would’ve still talked to you.” 

“Yeah, what do you have to fear from one squishy human, hm?”

“No! Not that. I … look. I don’t think you did what you did for revenge. I think you did it because you were worried about the world. Even about the people who hate you. If you were in it for revenge you would’ve tried to hurt me from the start, or use the vial. You would’ve tried to take me down, somehow. You would’ve gone to war. But you didn’t,” Clark said quietly. “I think you were just trying to get my measure. And open my eyes.”

“Naivety is sweet in a child but dangerous in someone like you,” Bruce said evenly. “I wasn’t aiming to help you.”

“I do want to live in the human world. If I wanted to, sure, I could’ve lived on… in Area 51 or something, or in the North Pole, somewhere remote with nobody around. That’s never what I wanted. But I didn’t realize that I was really merely going through the paces until I met you.” 

“Don’t bother making me out to be the good guy.” 

“There’s no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ here. Just… never mind.” Clark sighed. “I kinda feel like I should be angrier at you than I really am.” Maybe it was a good thing that Tam’s interruption of Bruce’s plans had come so quickly. To Clark, now, it did seem like forever and a day ago, but it hadn’t actually _been_ that long since Remembrance was even announced.

“You said you used to wish that you were human. Is that still true?” 

Clark smiled unevenly at Bruce. “Now and then.” God, it seemed to hurt even to speak. To be here, with Bruce; worse than before, on Ground Zero, when Clark had been forced to kill Zod. He swallowed again, shakily. 

“Why?” 

“Because what I am scares people. Some people. I can see that.”

“So what?” 

“That’s… not actually a good thing,” Clark pointed out warily, wondering if he was being baited, but Bruce only smirked faintly, as though at a private joke. “What would _you_ do,” Clark challenged, “If you had my powers?” 

Bruce raised his eyebrows, though he did seem to think about it briefly. “Probably misuse them,” he conceded. “Institute a global monarchy, maybe. One man, one vote. There’s so much cruelty in the world that no amount of money can fix. Superpowers, though, there’s a thought.” 

Clark coughed out a laugh that shook into something more like a strangled sob, and Bruce stared at him uneasily. Was it guilt that was making Bruce seem so reserved? It wasn’t fear. He felt tired now, over everything. “I understand why you did what you did,” Clark said finally. “I forgive you.” Bruce frowned at him, silent, and Clark added, “I hope that someday you’d forgive _me_.” 

For a long moment Clark thought that Bruce wasn’t going to respond. Just as he was about to give up, and go get his bag from where he’d dumped it at the airstairs, Bruce sighed, rubbing a palm over his face. “I’m not going to apologise for what I did.”

“I know. I wasn’t expecting you to.” 

“Want this?” Bruce asked, a little unexpectedly, tossing the vial from one hand to the other. When Clark blinked at him in surprise, Bruce added, a little defensively, “Hell, I don’t even know if it works. That’s partly why I kept it locked up.” 

“No, I… You keep it. I want you to have it. In case someday I - in case I do go bad. I like to think that someone out there could stop me.” 

“You’re… not what I expected,” Bruce said carefully, which Clark supposed was probably the first real compliment that Bruce had ever paid him. “Go home, Clark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head to the next bit!


	11. Chapter 11

Bruce.

Tam had warned Bruce in a flurry of texts about Alfred, but as far as Bruce could tell when he got back to the Manor, there was no apparent difference in Alfred’s demeanour at all. Bruce wasn’t even really annoyed anymore - if he’d even been so in the first place.

One afternoon, Alfred handed Bruce back his Kindle while Bruce was in the Cave. “The translation is ready, Master Bruce.” 

“Excellent. Took its time.”

“I gather from our inhouse team that translating a classic work of Chinese science fiction is not quite like translating tech sheets, sir. More coffee?” 

“Sure,” Bruce said distractedly, starting up the Kindle, slouched in his chair. Only one screen of Computer now watched Superman, and it looked like he had last been busy catching a derailed train. The rest of the screens sat dark, mirroring Alfred’s carefully solemn face. “Alfred,” Bruce said slowly, “Did you really think that I was trying to kill myself?”

The screen’s reflection of Alfred narrowed his eyes slightly. “Not at all.”

“Figures.” And _Tam_ thought that _Bruce_ was dramatic. 

“However,” Alfred added mildly, “It did seem like you were headed full-tilt down a particularly unwise path.” 

“Like that’s never happened before.” 

The humour did nothing to defuse Alfred’s mood: he sighed. “Sometimes I do feel like I’ve failed your parents. After what… happened to them… there was so much anger in you. And it’s always been there. In some ways, it’s gotten worse.”

“You put me through therapy when I was a kid, I remember that. Fun.” 

“And obviously it didn’t work. Maybe I should have tried something else, I don’t know. Certainly it’s unfortunate that until fairly recently, your only true confidante was an old family retainer.”

“I don’t see that as unfortunate.” 

“Of course you don’t,” Alfred said wryly. “But living most of your formative years bent on revenge, and then most of your young adult life buried in secrets? I can’t say that’s been healthy, emotionally or otherwise. It has, on occasions, led you to make choices that have been ill-advised.”

“You’re trying to tell me that trying to control Superman was stupid. It _was_ going well. Until you people sabotaged it,” Bruce pointed out evenly.

“It would take a true sociopath to have that particular plan function the way you wanted it to,” Alfred retorted. “And, despite the opinions of some inmates in the Gotham criminal justice system, you are not a sociopath.” 

Bruce let out a deep sigh, and slid the Kindle onto the bench. Reluctantly he had to concede. Alfred _was_ right. Very slowly, Bruce had been getting… compromised, in a way. Bruce had come into the Plan expecting Clark to be unapologetic about Ground Zero. Have an ego, perhaps. Be ruthless, like a soldier, spouting platitudes about the unfortunate calculus of war. He hadn’t expected someone so painstakingly _normal_. Human.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Bruce said finally. “Cat’s out of the bag.” 

“I shall take the fact that you returned with all your arms and legs as a good sign, sir.” 

“Thanks,” Bruce noted sardonically. Alfred’s reflection nodded, and as he turned to go, Bruce added, “Alfred? Next time, if you think that I’m being really stupid about something… Just tell me to my face. I promise I’ll listen this time.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Alfred noted, though he smiled faintly as he withdrew. 

Clark didn’t end up publishing the feature article he had written in Japan, for whatever reason, but after the train incident he was soon popping up in the news again, this time often at the foot of each Wayne Tower to gently shoo away protesters. Naturally, that didn’t particularly help matters: seeing their object of worship/hate only emboldened the different factions. But at least nothing seemed to be on fire again yet. 

“I wouldn’t be that worried,” Lucius said comfortably, as they sat out in the warm afternoon sun in his ranch, watching Tina ride her roan pony in the paddock, led by Tam. “At least, not until he decides to draft his own Ten Commandments from up on high.”

“Now that’s an interesting thought. Commandments for the modern age. ‘Thou shalt not be an asshole’-”

“Good thing _you’re_ not the Superman.” 

“Good thing for the world,” Bruce agreed. He had slowly patched up things to a state of vague neutrality with Lucius, if only because Tam had threatened not to visit with Tina any longer, or something equally merciless. 

“Yes,” Lucius said wryly, “You’ve shown a proven record of sometimes running roughshod over common decency to get to where you want.”

“Ouch.” 

“But you do mean well. Which is more than what I can say for the Koch brothers.”

“Thanks Lucius,” Bruce said dryly, “‘Bruce, you’re not as bad as I thought, because, when it comes down to it, at least you’re not Satan.’” 

“Well, if you want to be so negative about it, sure.” Lucius chuckled, and they talked about Japan’s new Wayne R&D and the Fukushima problem until Tam and Tina returned, sweating and grinning and looking for lemonade. Tam eyeballed Bruce pointedly until he swallowed his question about birthdays, and they moved to the shade, watching the horses and ponies until the lemonade had run dry and the biscuits were gone. Tam popped into the house to use the bathroom even as Lucius pottered around to clean up, and Tina swivelled her little head around, peeking from her grandfather to the kitchen, then she beckoned Bruce urgently over with a cheeky grin. 

Playfully, Bruce went down on one knee. “What is it, Princess?” 

“Uncle Bruce,” Tina stage-whispered. “This year I want a really, really ginormous dog. A ginormous fluffy dog. Like, a _dogasaurus_.” 

Tam was probably not going to like this. Bruce ruffled Tina’s curly hair, amused. “I’ll see what I can do, sweetheart.” She smiled at him adoringly, his Favourite Uncle status confirmed for another year, and for a moment Bruce could see what Tam had meant about regret and the regard of children. Then he ruffled Tina's hair again, and got up to help Lucius with the dishes.

Diana.

This stretch of the beach was rocky, and relatively quiet. Diana stood on the edge of the grassy cliff, watching the waves break on the ugly beach, travelling out over the uneven surf, over a seemingly unbroken stretch of sea. She was dressed for the weather, in a light frock, though she wore her shield, covered, against her back, and her bracers on her wrists. Soon, she would be home.

“You can come down now,” Diana noted, and there was a brush of displaced air as Clark seemed to appear right next to her. He was dressed in his faintly ridiculous, iconic outfit, blue with the red cloak, and Diana pursed her lips, amused. “By the way, bright red cloaks are good for dramatic effect but not usually good as part of a battle garment.” 

“Noted,” Clark said wryly. “Yes, Bruce told me that too. Which, in my opinion, is kinda funny coming from a guy who lives in a city that was once run by a so-called ‘Caped Crusader’, but what do you know.”

“You’re speaking with Bruce Wayne again?” 

“Kind of. I’ve called him now and then. I mean. Twice so far.” Clark admitted, as Diana tilted her head. “It hasn’t worked the other way but. I appreciate his opinion.”

“It’s a rare man who would heed the words of an enemy.”

“He’s not my enemy.” 

“He isn’t your friend, either.”

“I don’t see him as an enemy,” Clark corrected himself. “He told me about your um. Husband. My condolences.”

“So formal,” Diana said softly. “‘My condolences’. ‘I’m sorry to hear that’. He lived a long life, my Steven, and most of it was good. That’s as much as any man can ask for.”

“And now you’re going home.”

“And now I’m going home,” Diana agreed. “I’ve spent enough time in Man’s World, I think. Things have changed, but not that much - and not for everyone. It’s best that I leave.” 

“I’m sorry about that,” Clark said uncomfortably. “I was hoping that you could stay. For a little bit longer.”

“You could have approached me before if you were interested in learning.” 

“I didn’t really have a way of getting into contact. Not until I spoke to Bruce and… I was putting that off for a while. I _am_ interested in learning. I have a friend in the military, he tried loaning me an instructor, but it didn’t work very well. I uh. Accidentally broke his arm.”

“Clark, I’m not leaving the planet,” Diana said, amused. “If you need help, meet me here. This time, next week.”

“Sure. Uh, thanks.” Diana could see that Clark was working himself up to another question, so she waited, while he stared at the waves, rubbing his hands absently together. “Diana, if you don’t mind me asking… why aren’t you… out there? Using your powers? I don’t know if Bruce was wrong about this, but he said you pretty much just lived quietly, running a company.”

“You are not a soldier,” Diana said gently. “So you do not see. For you, there is a difference between the troubles of the earth and the troubles of its people. You save people from earthquakes, from floods, from fires. For me, all suffering is one. The pain of someone trapped under a train… the pain of the Yazidi women, enslaved, or even those in the Congo, for whom daily life can be hellish. If I were to set out to cure the ills of the world I would not pick and choose. But not even you could cure the world of suffering.”

“You would kill?”

“Mine is not a culture that has had much of a moral problem with killing.” Diana pointed out. “I told Tam that the previous Queen - before my mother - wanted to turn our culture away from war. She failed, and she died because she failed. We have always been a warlike race. We resolve many disputes through dialogue, certainly, but also through contests of arms. We may not kill our own, but other people?” Diana shrugged. “I would still sleep easy at night, if I killed to right a wrong.” 

“I don’t… I don’t know if I agree with that.”

“Perhaps not. I am not the best one to ask.” 

“You really did step aside because you thought you’d eventually go to war?”

“My husband convinced me. What, he said, was the point of changing the world, if you had to do it by singlehandedly drowning it in death? We’d already seen how that looked like, in the world war. He thought that it would change me for the worse, and he was probably right. And besides, our brief interaction with higher government didn’t prove to be encouraging at the time,” Diana added. “Particularly since I was a woman, it seemed. The world of Man is a strange one. You should be careful.”

“What could they do that could hurt me?” 

“I think you already know the answer to that. Stay well,” Diana clasped Clark’s hand. “I’m glad to have met you, child.”

“See you next week, Diana.” Clark sped off, and Diana shaded her eyes against the sun, watching him go, until the sky was empty. Then she made her way carefully down the slope, towards the hidden craft, waiting to take her home.

Tam.

Tam found Bruce in the Manor garden, lying on the grass, heedless of the probable damage to his tailored clothes, his eyes closed. With a reluctant sigh, Tam lay down beside him, folding her hands over her belly. Vera Wang dresses were never meant for this kind of ill use.

Somewhere in the background, Alfred asked, urbanely, “Tea?”

“No thanks, Alfred.” Tam listened to Alfred pottering off, heading back into the Manor, and when it was quiet, she said, “I gather you watched the Congressional hearing?”

“No. What was the point? I knew what the outcome would be. Everyone knows that there’s nothing they can really do to the Superman. Any sanctions are going to be entirely voluntary on his part. It’s nice to see them finally understand what it’s like to be the UN.”

Tam chuckled softly. “Well, since you’re not interested…” 

“You might as well tell me, since you drove all the way out here.”

“They spent the first hour discussing whether there was even a point to the hearing, actually. It was all very existential. Whether Superman is human, et cetera. In the end, based on the Fourteenth Amendment, given Superman was a person adopted by a couple of American citizens, he’s a naturalized United States citizen. As to what a ‘person’ means, given that under our laws corporations can be persons, sentient aliens were not that far a stretch.” 

Bruce chuckled mirthlessly. “Lovely.”

“So once they established that United States laws applied to Superman, that’s when the lawyers all came out of the woodwork. Curtis testified on behalf of Remembrance, by the way. Very good speech, et cetera. They also heard testimonies from families of victims and - you’ll like this - one Taiwanese earthquake survivor. Very emotional.” 

“Good.” 

“Victim families were split fairly evenly. Some forgave Superman, some were running neutral. Some were still angry.” It _had_ been emotional. Tam had watched it in the ranch, with Lucius, and Lucius had left during the testimonies to stand in the paddock, face turned towards the sky, streaming tears. 

“Are you all right? And Lucius?”

“Yeah.” Tam exhaled. “Anyway, after that they grilled Superman. That’s when it got _really_ interesting. I don’t think they expected him to concede most of their points. That a reasonable person would’ve known that fighting in a densely populated city would’ve been catastrophic, that he failed to mitigate the damage by making an attempt to change the war zone, particularly after the first building collapsed. He even conceded contributory negligence, recklessness, whatever they wanted. I think the committee was surprised.” 

“They would be.”

“Came off as very humble and remorseful.”

“No doubt.” 

“Seemed genuine, too,” Tam added carefully, and Bruce exhaled. 

“Probably was. The only part of that which surprises me is that the Administration didn’t lawyer up around him.”

“The Administration’s new, probably doesn’t want the drama - yet. And our Pentagon man mentioned that Swanwick’s still hoping that eventually Clark would go over to the military. Maybe they thought that the hearing would scare him into running to them for cover.” 

“He wouldn’t scare that easily,” Bruce smiled faintly. “So? What was the conclusion? Jail? A fine? Let me guess. They proposed to institute a bipartisan Standing Committee that would make firm guiding recommendations for Superman in the future should any more crisis situations come up.” 

“That’s it.”

“Ridiculous. That’s Congress for you.”

“It’s still what we wanted.” 

“I suppose it was.” 

“You should’ve watched the closing remarks. Clark gave a speech.”

“Asked for forgiveness, promised to do better, called for civility, told people to please stop worshipping him because it’s embarrassing?” 

“What,” Tam smirked, “Did you write it?”

“No. But I now know how his mind works.” Bruce opened his eyes, shading them against the sky, then he suddenly frowned, pushing himself up to his feet, dusting off grass and dirt absently. “Thanks for coming. Could I have a moment?” 

“What…” Tam glanced up sharply, then she sniffed, grinning slyly as she let Bruce help her up. “I should’ve known. I’ll call you later, then.” She started to head around the Manor, back towards where her car was parked. Just around the corner, Tam turned, in time to see Clark land lightly on the grass, red cloak billowing against his feet, his eyes fixed on Bruce’s face, like a moth to fire.

Clark.

“God, it’s cold up here,” Bruce grumbled, shivering, even bundled up in cashmere and wool.

“You’re the one who wanted to watch the Times Square ball drop from way up,” Clark pointed out mildly. He wasn’t bothered by the cold. Bruce was warm, pressed against Clark’s flank, held up in the freezing air high over Times Square by just Clark’s arm, curled around his waist. It was a casual, humbling show of trust. Bruce’s heartbeat had picked up briefly when they had flown up, but it had settled back down, a steady, confident rhythm. 

“Sometimes I make less than optimal decisions,” Bruce conceded. 

“If only I could’ve recorded that for Alfred. It would’ve been his early birthday present.” 

“Don’t you start. If Tam’s Alfred 2.0, you’re turning into 3.0. Terrible habit.” Bruce absently rubbed his gloved hands together, glowering down at the brightly lit spectacle below. “We’re so going to get hit by a news helicopter.”

“Relax, you don’t need my sense of hearing to know when one’s coming. This was your idea.”

“No need to rub it in, farmboy. Countdown’s going to start soon. Then we can get the hell out of the cold.”

“We could get somewhere warmer right now,” Clark pointed out. 

“What’s a few minutes more of suffering? Besides,” Bruce added, “This is probably the closest any of the rest of us would get to really flying. This is insane. _Flying_. Superpowers. I’m all the way up here, freezing my ass off, and part of me is still convinced it’s just a crazy dream.” 

Clark chuckled. “You’re not the only one. Sometimes, when I’m flying? I think that I’m going to wake all the way up. That I’d be back in Kansas, at daybreak, ready to wake up to let out and feed the chickens.” 

Bruce glanced at him, curious. “You have _daydreams_ about being human? Still?”

“Well sure. Isn’t there a part of all of us that wants to be like everyone else?” 

Bruce pulled a face. “Not me. That would be incredibly boring.”

Clark laughed. “I should’ve known you would say that. _Lois_ thinks I’m crazy, by the way. That I’m even still talking to you.” 

“She does have a point. Even Tam thinks you’re losing it, and she’s on my side. Usually.” 

“I really did mean it then,” Clark added, “When I said that I forgive you for what you did.”

“Noted.” Bruce was frowning now, at the crowd far below. “Heard you the first time.” 

“The thing is,” Clark said gently, “All the things I admired you for from the start - your philanthropy, the way you think about things, the way you keep trying to fix bits of the world… that’s never changed. That part of you wasn’t feigned. And the rest? Hell, it hurt to think that you were trying to manipulate me all along. But I could even understand why you did that. I think I’m ready to try and trust you again. I want to trust you.” 

Bruce was silent for a while, then he sighed. “You’re still naive.” 

“So I’ve been told.” 

“I don’t think I would have ever used the virus,” Bruce conceded neutrally. “If Tam and the others hadn’t forced my hand, I would've left it where it was. I just had it made because wasn’t sure of you at the start, and wanted to be prepared for the worst. But now? I think you do have a good heart. Where it counts.”

“As do you.” 

Bruce’s mouth curled tightly. “I know that I don’t. And that’s the difference between you and me. Superpowers aside.”

“I don’t believe that.” 

Bruce sniffed, and said nothing. Below, the crowd roared in pulses, counting down the seconds to the end of the year. Fireworks were lighting up the countdown clock, scattering streamers of light and smoke, and the new year was greeted by a jubilant tidal cry of exultation. Bruce smiled at the spectacle, faintly, and emboldened, Clark leaned over to peck him on the cheek. 

“Happy new year,” Clark offered, as Bruce stiffened for a moment in surprise. 

“…Happy new year,” Bruce echoed softly, curling an arm around Clark’s shoulders and using the leverage to pull himself up, brushing a tentative kiss over Clark’s temple. Beneath them, fireworks spat upwards in tongues of colour, fresh-woven, against the midnight sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Done! Thanks everyone for reading! :)  
> \--  
> Some final notes:
> 
> Bruce would say that his cloak (cape!) is functional. Functional! XD 
> 
> I actually had to research congressional hearings slightly for this fic, as well as the fourteenth amendment. The things I do for you guys. Also, I have no idea how the US government actually manages to get anything done, tbh. That was convoluted. 
> 
> **NOTE** : Some countries don't get the film release on the same day, and not all of us are watching it on the premiere date, so, no spoilers in the comments please :)
> 
> \--  
> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


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